


Rami Character One Shots

by poptod



Category: Alcatraz (TV), Mr. Robot (TV), Night at the Museum (Movies), The Little Things - Fandom, The Pacific (TV), The War at Home, Twilight (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, One Shot Collection, Poetic, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 113,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24985921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poptod/pseuds/poptod
Summary: One shots of different Rami characters!
Relationships: Ahkmenrah (Night at the Museum)/Reader, Benjamin (Twilight)/Reader, Elliot Alderson/Reader, Kenny Al-Bahir/Reader, Merriel "Snafu" Shelton/Reader, Webb Porter/Reader
Comments: 20
Kudos: 59





	1. Elliot - Invariably

**Author's Note:**

> I finally decided to put together a little compilation of some of my one shots that I generally post on Tumblr. They're too short for their own post and there aren't enough to stick to one character so it's kind of a jumble of them. Hope you enjoy! ALL of them are gender neutral unless stated otherwise!

_Why do we love?_

Many say it’s just a chemical in your brain, but there’s others that say it’s a bond that goes beyond human life. All you know is that your love feels like life incarnate, ever-changing but always adoring and caring, even if it doesn’t know how. What part of him made you love him you can’t pinpoint - it could’ve been his smile, or perhaps the meaning behind his touch barely gracing your skin. It could’ve been that he simply was, without meaning and without purpose, he existed and was simply extraordinary.

There’s different forms of love, of course - familial, platonic, romantic, sexual, but they all count. It’s affection for another, worship to the unholy, benevolence upon the unworthy. If only you could articulate; he’s so quiet, so thoughtful, so strange in his intricacies that you’d happily spend a lifetime to know his ardor as well as you know you love him.

Why, exactly, we love isn’t something easy to answer - you love him because he exists. He doesn’t have to love you back, in fact you’re sure he doesn’t; love for the sake of it is something rare to come across. Many people love for favors. They love the fact that another person can make them happy, they love the feeling they get, they love that the other person thinks of them and buys them gifts, but love for love is strange, not unknown to you, but certainly to him. He can’t seem to understand you, but it doesn’t bother you too much. Why do you love him? He is. You find warmth in his reply, solicitude in his silence, yearning in his breath - there’s a tenderness so fond, so adoring and everlasting that you can’t simply answer _why_ you love him. You just do. Even as he leaves you for months at a time you love him - he is not indebted to you for your love for him, both of you know this.

So when asked, _‘why do we love?’_ your answer is often, _‘there’s no reason at all, I’m afraid.’_

_How do I love you?_

You don’t make it obvious, but you make no effort to hide it - you’re at his beck and call though you save enough time for yourself. The struggle to find balance in care for others and care for oneself is one you’ve fought with many years, but there’s a peace in helping others, in loving others, that you can’t find in self care. As much as you may take care of yourself, one human in an empty world won’t survive long, especially not one like you; you’re half desperate for touch, for human affection, for someones’ charity, none of which you get from him. Again, he owes you nothing for the love you feel.

But as his exterior, his routine, his life begins to mold and change as life always does, it molds to fit you - right at his side, and the feeling for him is indescribable. It’s horrid, awful, and he absolutely hates it; you make him nervous as every other person does but you’re so understanding, so _warm_ that it only feels right to have you near. For years he’s kept his love in solitude, his regard locked away deep in his mind, and now without thought you’ve made a home for yourself right next to that box he hasn’t dared to open. You don’t pry - no, you’d never do that to him - you’re just… there. Gentle. And it drives him insane.

Affection simply isn’t something he enjoys, not something he understands, but with you there’s stunning clarity in what was so bewildering. Like finding new colors, unfathomable, inconceivable without the use of technology, but instead of the technology he finds comfort in it’s _you_. You’re the thing making the unfathomable into reality, the inconceivable into actuality.

When he wanders into the back of his thoughts, to the subconscious of himself to find that little box with all his affections locked up, all the love stowed away for later use, he relates the train of thought to you. You’re beside it, fit into a hole made only for you, made for each of your complexities.

He finds himself wondering, _‘how do I love you?’_

_‘How is it possible you’ve made me love you?’_

_‘How did you manage to break into what was so closely guarded?’_

He doesn’t tell you about his findings, not when your hair is tussled from accidentally sleeping overnight in his apartment, not when you’re making him breakfast because you don’t want him to go hungry. Certainly not when you smile, and when you leave, he desiderates what he couldn’t say. Somehow he sort of, just maybe, already knows what you’d say - you didn’t break into his heart. You didn’t cheat him out of his possessions, you didn’t steal from him; you gained his trust, and without realizing it he’d handed all this power over him to you.

It’s frightening, but that’s sometimes what love is. Even if he wishes love was more kind, more generous and understanding to his situation, he wouldn’t be alone. Lots of people wish love were different, and he knows that, but he can’t help himself from wishing it along with them as he stares at the closed door you walked out of.

There’s so many things you’ve done for him, you’ve shown love in nearly every way a person can. You compliment him, you assure him of your care, and you do things for him as well, such as cooking breakfast. Every moment he wants you by his side you’re there, even sometimes when he doesn’t want you, despite the fact that he needs you.

He needs you, he realizes, he needs you _desperately_ , he needs you to stay with him, to be forever young but he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know how to tell you this, he doesn’t know how to interact with you in any way that might clue you in so that you’ll make the first move. You’re ever so polite, so much so that you hardly ever tried to do something against his wishes or needs, so without his initiation you’d never do a thing. Not without his direct consent, and for a moment he curses your philanthropy.

_How can I let myself be loved?_

If there’s one thing in his entire world, the world he studies so meticulously yet doesn’t care much for that he doesn’t understand, it’s the thought of him being the object of someones’ affections. From the start he’s never understood your love for him, ever wondering why of all people _he_ would earn your devotion. You don’t fit him right, at least that’s what he tells himself because anything else would be self sabotage. You’re wonderful, you’re kind - you work as a docent at an art museum for free, you spend your time volunteering to help people, and in every person you look for the good. He’s quite literally the exact opposite; he looks for the worst, and rests his decisions on what he sees. The worst he’s ever seen in you is a lack of care for yourself in place of your intrigue in him.

You’re standing beside him - always to his right - as he watches the massive billboards flicker different advertisements. The rain that falls doesn’t do much, barely frosting his nose but you’re rubbing your hands together to keep from the freeze. The fluorescent light that falls like dust upon your skin illuminates the red in your cheeks, and the light in your eyes is just as bright as ever; that never changes. You never change. He’s brought this up several times, but you insist you’re always bettering yourself, and recently he’s been wondering how you attempt at bettering perfection.

Only when you turn to him, half a smile on your face, does he realize that he’s been staring at you, his mouth almost hanging open. He wants to turn away, the intensity of your simple attention burning his cheeks and hinting tears to his eyes, but he doesn’t. In a moment of rare normality he manages to keep looking at you, almost mimicking your smile with tiny quirks at the edges of his lips, and at the intimacy of his echo of your smile makes you grin, thoughtless and intrinsic.

The sidewalk isn’t particularly crowded, but it’s not empty - most everyone is huddled underneath the bus stop roof, but you’re still beside him without complaint. Rain brings a silence, a specific one that he enjoys very much; a silence where no one is talking. You know how much he likes that silence, and as always you do what he likes. You don’t talk, you don’t say a word, you certainly don’t mention what he wishes you’d bring up.

He barely says your name, hell, he can barely hear himself say it, but you still turn to him, ever vigilant for his voice. There’s an expectant twinkle in your eye, innocent and he still can’t understand how you’re _excited_ to hear him talk, because that’s what you are - you’re excited. He can see that in your eyes, in your posture and composure, you want to hear him and whatever it is he has to say. The thought of it is nearly too much, so much that he wonders if saying your name was a good idea in the first place, but you’re still watching him expectantly by the time he’s gone through his thoughts.

At last he asks, _‘how can I let myself be loved?’_ and though you’re clearly surprised you show little aversion to the questions’ subject. You try your best to answer, but as with every question love may bring, it isn’t ever easy.

First you say, _‘you need to respect yourself first, and be aware that you are lovable,’_ and he thanks whatever listens that the words you use are ones he can understand. _‘You have to know that whomever loves you will always love you.’_

You say, _‘real love is never fleeting.’_

You say, _‘it’s simple for some people to let themselves be loved,’_ and you say, _‘it’s alright if you aren’t one of those people. I wasn’t either.’_

And so you’re like him - just as broken, with your devotion locked away, but you’ve learned to love. You’ve learned why you love, how you may love, and you’ve learned how to let yourself be loved, even if you were just like him.

Maybe he can learn too. Maybe you’ll love him long enough for him to find out how all this messy fondness fits together, maybe he’ll be able to love you forever - you’re ever caring, endlessly perfect and wonderfully bright, and he knows he’d give all he knows to burn away in your light. It’s endearing, though, how someone as holy as you could cast your worship to someone so below you, and he wonders what he would do with himself if he let you love him. If he let your fondness for him seep through his locks, your tenderness to caress a part of him he’s hardly ever known.

So he asks - it’s a moment he hates to be in, but it passes soon over, the words come fumbling out of his mouth but you mostly understand him. He asks, _‘will you always love me?’_

And you reply, _‘invariably, Elliot.’_


	2. Ahkmenrah - Latibule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahk's time at Cambridge (and how he learned English).

Professor Wilkins’ record collection is filled to the brim with classics, you note, filing through them for the perfect music. Rain patters outside, and the dusty library is alight with a nearby fireplace. Two student sit opposite each other, reading their own separate books and sparing glances at each other every now and then, the fire casting dancing shadows along their faces. You, on the other hand, are still looking through Wilkins’ collection, ranging from Beethoven to Glenn Miller and Ella Fitzgerald. The worn corners of the cases are soft against your calloused fingers, and at last you pull a random vinyl out, setting it on the old phonograph you’d been allowed to use for the evening. Copland comes on, an orchestral piece - not one you know, surprisingly. With that the rain outside mutes under the tones of the vinyl and the crackling of the fire, and you set out in search of books covering your study topic.

You’d come to Cambridge for exactly one reason: to study Egyptology. But, with Egyptology comes a massive range of other historical components, including Greece, Rome, and a good amount of the Middle East in general, as well as India and China. They all connect, like an old world trade, and though all that interests you is Egypt, the other subjects are ones you are required to learn. Much like your technique with the records your fingers skim along the binds of the many books, dust falling off them to coat your fingertips a duller shade. From the phonograph a woman begins to sing, and it draws you deeper into your search - through sections D to F, till you reach the author you’re looking for.

It’s a decent sized book, about as thick as your arm, and bigger than your face. This one, however, is recently used, the bindings flimsy and worn but mostly clean. When you open it, the cover slams down on the table with a _crack_ , striking you for a moment as odd before you dig out your own notebook from your leather satchel. Pencil in hand, you take notes as the sun sets invisibly behind the amassing clouds, and the rain grows heavy with thunder striking its’ occasional beat. It isn’t long till you’re flipping the record over, and the students previously reading in front of the fire tap your shoulder, and helpfully inform you that the library is closing soon. Blearily, you nod, half hearing their words - university brings a level of exhaustion unknown to any other student or worker.

Reading over the inventions of Rome and their connection to Egypt, you don’t notice when the fire dies away, and you don’t notice the needle slipping off the record while it still spins. This specific library, in this specific wing of the building, is filled with artifacts from the various cultures you study - perhaps it’s a show of achievement, or a weak attempt to make students feel closer to their classes and studies, but all it does is unsettle you. Unopened mummies stare blankly ahead, golden skin reflecting in the dimming light, jewelry shining and various weapons hanging in their simplistic design.

There was one exhibit, however, that held a very special place in your heart purely because of how much it terrified you. Comparably it’s recently discovered, around five years ago - you can’t remember the exact date, but it’s set in the introductory plate in front if it. Glass protects it from being stolen, and dust gathers on the golden tablet; dubbed the Tablet of Ahkmenrah. Not very much is known about Ahkmenrah, not even his age, nor if Ahkmenrah is his real name, and no one can quite pinpoint the era either. If the name is correct, that places him more around the twelfth dynasty of the Middle Kingdom, but the wrappings and tomb design place him in the era of the Old Kingdom. Names aren’t everything, you know that, and you’re one of the believers that place him in the Old Kingdom, though which dynasty exactly is unknown.

The library closes as evening approaches, but you don’t notice, enraptured in the history of Rome’s invasion of Egypt. A light shines behind you, the only thing to bring you out of your reading. Turning around, you see the tablet glow - you squint your eyes, wondering if you’re hallucinating, or if there’s a play on your eyes, but no. It’s definitely glowing, _humming_ almost, an ethereal tone so unearthly you’d never be able to recall it without hearing it again. In one final burst of light that fills the whole of the small library there’s a sudden breath in the air - fresh, and living, and a deep discomfort settles low in your stomach.

From the corner of the library you hear a moan, sounding pained and confused, which only makes you panic more. On instinct you go to the doors, your heart racing at a dangerously fast pace when you find them locked. The moaning gets louder, accompanied by a dull thudding, and the explorer in you takes hold of your nerves. There’s something there, something _undiscovered_ , you just know it - all you need to do is step forward.

Easier said than done - a fight or flight response has decided to opt out, and what you’re left is a petrified, tense stance, which you’re fully aware is a reaction of prey. Like a deer in headlights. An especially loud thump breaks you out of the trance, which you’re half thankful for, but the noise increases and you’re left with more fear. Your steps are slow, cautious, and unbalanced - all the necessary things for a growing student. You make it to the exhibit without trouble, and somehow unsurprisingly, it’s Ahkmenrah’s casket, locked away in a glass case.

Twice you knock on the glass, gentle, and the rattling of the coffin stops. Then, two knocks, mimicking you. Your breath catches as you realize there’s something in there, some thing _alive_ and well enough to recognize patterns, enough to recognize that you’re there without seeing you.

 _This is a cruel trick_ , you think to yourself. You’re not exactly important enough to be bullied at this school, but it’s not too far of a reach to say some math students could pull this off. All of it is too good to be true; a pathway into history, a skeleton come to life. Fumbling to your pockets you search for a paper clip, anything you could open the glass case with, and you come up empty. Once more you knock on the glass, the same pattern, and it is returned. With a calming breath, you go in search of paper clips.

There’s one on your desk, keeping some of your loose paper together, and faster than you can think you whip it off and put old skills to use. The illegality of it all doesn’t hit you, not even as your fingers trace over the gold plated sarcophagus, over the lapis design and black outlining. Twice you knock, and the thing inside responds in kind. One more shaky breath, you fiddle with the different knobs at the side, and with a click it opens.

Slowly, the door opens, and half what you expected and half what you were afraid of comes out - a man covered entirely in centuries old wrappings. His hands, fingers forced together, paw at the back of his head as he attempts to undo the restricting cloth. A million thoughts cross your mind, including that this has to be dangerous, and that he won’t understand you, and that he might kill you if your professor doesn’t.

“Uh…” you try to speak, but he’s still very clearly busy trying to unwrap himself. Hesitantly you move forward, reaching to help him, but he’s finally got it. Like a gift he pulls his mask away from his face, and what you see is nothing within the realm of what you expected.

“Oh my. You look surprisingly normal,” you blurt out, knowing full well he won’t know what you’re saying. He narrows his eyes, confused and more innocent than you expected - this boy can’t be older than 18, which is only a year younger than you. He says something in his own language, a dead one you’ve never heard before.

“Do…” you try to think of a word he knows, something he’ll recognize, when it comes to you - “You’re from Kemet… right?”

To your knowledge and your teachers’ knowledge Kemet is what they call their home, Egypt, and you pray to God he understands you. A spark shines in his eyes as he smiles, pointing at you when you say the word.

“Kemet!” He says in a joyously childish tone, grinning brightly with teeth much cleaner than what you expected. For another moment you stare at each other, him trying to decipher who you are, why you look the way you do, and what clothes you’re wearing, while you try to think of a way to tell him where he is.

“Kemet,” you say, pointing at him, “England,” you say, pointing at yourself.

“Enlan,” he replies, trying to mimic you. Giggling, you shake your head.

“England,” you say again, over pronouncing it. He nods, furrowing his brows in concentration.

“Enngland.”

Enthusiastically you nod, smiling just as bright as he is. Stuttering you take his hand, leading him to one of the cushy chairs in front of the fire place, which is now barely glowing red, the remaining embers buried in ash.

“Ahkmenrah?” You ask, gesturing to him. His mouth opens slightly - he’s confused, but he nods. He says something odd, but it ends in his name, so you assume that historians are correct; his name is Ahkmenrah.

“I,” you point to yourself, “am (Y/N).”

Once again he tries to repeat you, and it sounds like a bastardization of your name, which you quickly correct. Second time around he gets it, and the two of you smile. As he looks around the room, marveling at the number of books and the architecture, you sit staring at him, wondering how it’s possible. The golden tablet catches his eye and he stands, his hand still bandaged drags across your arm as he walks in a trance towards it. You follow close behind, gauging his reaction.

His fingers drag across the glass, leaving no imprint in their wrapped state. Again he says something to you, a breath barely coming out of him as the words are whispered.

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” You murmur, glancing at the tablet still half glowing, then back to him.

“Ahasu bey,” he whispers, going over every hieroglyph carved into its surface. It doesn’t sound quite right, but you studied Arabic for a time, which as close to the Egyptian language as it gets - it sounds like an odd version of ‘mine.’ So you repeat the word, in the version of the language that you know.

“Alkhasu bi?”

He turns to you, clearly surprised. For a moment he goes quiet, contemplating his words, a frown apparent on his face. He says something, something even you can’t understand, unlike Arabic or English.

“I can’t understand,” you say, feeling more lost than ever.

He sighs, forlorn as his fingers once more trace over the glass. Throat tight you attempt to swallow, reaching for his hands - someone has to untie them, and the only person is you. At first he jumps, startled by your touch, but he soon realizes what you’re trying to do. Slowly, you unravel the ages old cloth, careful not to tear anything.

The first thing you notice is how soft his hands are, unmarred from the labor his subjects faced. Your own fingers trace along the lines of his palm, reaching the tips of his fingers, holding them and curling them into his palm. You do the same with his other hand, and he pats your hand thankfully. Nervously he looks into your eyes and says something, something you can’t understand, but you take it to be a thank you, and you smile in return.

To pass the time locked away in the library, the both of you barred from leaving (though, he’d be a suspicion, wrapped up in all that cloth), you go over textbooks filled with different items. You point at an image of the night sky, and you say ‘night,’ while he says what you assume is night in his own language. Several things happen that night - you realize a lot of titles of things in Egypt aren’t the _actual_ titles, they’re just the general name for something. The Great Nile is really called the Aur; Nile means river in their language. Even though you know you’d never be able to share the information without being accused of either witchcraft or stupidity, you revel in his guidance, and quietly adore the sound of his voice.

When the first light of dawn strikes a shadow down the book the two of you are examining he inhales sharply, turns without a word, and stands in front of his sarcophagus. Confused you turn to him, watching as he wraps his hands once more.

He says something, something you know is important information, but you still can’t do anything about it. Something relating to night, and life, and as you help him back into his wrappings entirely confused as to why, it hits you. Struggling to put the mask back on you assist, muttering to yourself, “you only live at night, how convenient,” while wondering when anything had been less convenient. You hold his hand as long as you can, till the first rays of sunlight settle into the library, and before you can see his form you close the coffin, seal it shut, and lock him away in the glass case.

Every evening you come back, even though you really can’t afford to spend time talking to him. For the most part he understands, you point at your books and your studies and try to communicate that it’s important. As you stay under the green table lamp, pen in hand and a dozen sheets of questions out in front of you, he sits beside you, and tries to decipher your language. Sometimes he asks questions, and it’s not long at all till he begins to understand basic phrases, items, and gestures. Over Christmas Break, you only have one essay to write (granted, it is supposed to be 4,000 words long), thus allowing for a bit more time to spend with the young King.

“You call Kemet, Egypt?” He asks one day, looking at the map spread out on your unofficial desk. A typewriter sits to the side, half your essay written, lit by the glow of the fire.

“Yes. It’s here,” you say, and as always, you attempt to use simple phrasing, even if he’s learning English at an alarming rate. Pointing at the upper are in which Egypt rests his eyes follow, and he frowns.

“It’s… small,” he murmurs, his own fingers tracing the path of the Nile, barely visible on your map.

“No, not really. The world is big,” you say with a soft giggle, watching him as his eyes dart around the map - there’s more land than he can fathom.

“Lots of world,” he says with a nod, straightening his back from the bent down position. With a smile you nod, and he takes a seat. From the desk beside your own you pull another chair, and sit close to him.

“We are here,” you tell him, pointing to the little island of Great Britain.

“Also small,” he notes with a giggle.

“Yes… but powerful. Like Kemet.”

In understanding he nods, almost enthusiastically; there’s little you know about him statistics wise, such as birthdays or number of wives or children, but you know he’s curious, a fast learner, and almost… excitable. It seems, all around, an odd word to refer to an ancient Egyptian Pharaoh as, but it suits him well - when he learns he smiles a brilliant smile, and his eyes light up, crinkling at the edges in delight. His lips pout in a soft confusion when he’s still learning a topic, and they part just slightly, dimples appearing when he frowns. There’s a lot you know about him - nothing informational, but you know him, and he knows you just as well.

You’re just as joyful as he is when he learns something. The linguistics of a dead language is hard for you to understand, which is fair enough he thinks, but you get it anyway, every now and then. However, you do have an advantage, which is knowing a language similar to his own; he doesn’t have anything like that in his arsenal of learning. Still he manages to bond with you, over the knowledge of the stars, the shared mystery of the universe, and the marvel of life on Earth.

“Do… your work, is it done?” He asks, gesturing to the typewriter in the desk corner. No, it’s not - you’ve got a ways to go.

“Yes,” is what you tell him instead. Time with him is such a precious thing, so precious you’d begun debating on getting a job at Cambridge University once you graduated. At your lie he smiles, soft and barely there, and takes your hand, leading you to the fireplace.

The two red velvet chairs that sit in front of the fire have been getting slowly closer to one another during your visits, to the point where he can now hold your hand, notice each pattern in your fingertips while you both sit in separate seats. He does this exact thing - the fire heats your cheeks as he stares at your knuckles, his thumb brushing over them as he notes the smoothness of your skin. Your heart races painfully when you stare at where your hands meet, so instead you watch his face, and admire the cold glow of his eyes in the firelight.

For a while he continues doing this, examining every bit of your hand, and for some reason you let him. Even if it’s not a newfangled invention that he’s doting over it’s a sign of affection, which is only further proved when he breaks the silence to speak.

“Mrr i Twn,” he says, the words as odd on his tongue as any other - you’re not sure if you’ll ever get used to hearing a language so starkly different from your own. Despite how strange it sounds, you actually know what he’s saying, though by the expression on his face, he doesn’t think you do. Your mouth falls open, your heart thundering in your chest, and a deep need sparks within you to touch him.

“Say that again,” you breathe out, unable to break the eye contact he’s made. Hesitantly he does so, saying the words quieter and faster. Gingerly you trace your fingers across his palm, till they’re wrapped around his wrist - he holds your wrist just as firm and gentle.

“You… know, don’t you,” he mumbles, his face darkening in a strong blush.

“I know,” you say, a smile cracking across your face, warmth fluttering in your chest. “In English it’s ‘I love you.’”

“I lub you,” he tries, and again you correct him, till it comes out clear as day - “I love you.”

He tries to speak, takes a breath to do so, but nothing comes out - he stares at your intertwined hands, the way you stroke over his veins, the love that warms your touch, before looking back up at you - and only then you notice the tears glistening in his eyes. You hold him tighter and lean in.

“Are you alright?”

“I am… bad,” he answers, and it’s clear his limited vocabulary is hindering him from expressing himself. So you lean in closer yet, till your noses nearly touch.

“I adore you,” you say, your tone a melodic dream that closes his eyes in a rapt sigh.

“I don’t know what that means,” he says.

“Sorry. I love you,” you clarified with a smile, one that he copies, leaning into you till your foreheads press together.

When the giggles recede he smiles, spellbound by your closeness as he leans in closer. It only feels natural to follow, revering his love as a deep fondness settles in your stomach, admiring till the last moment comes and your lips meet. You haven’t ever kissed anyone before - which has always been a source of shame for you - and it’s what you expected; a golden glow courses through you, and there’s a strong desire to deepen the kiss. What you don’t expect, and what you could’ve never expected, was how safe it all felt, and the warm comfort that tingles at your fingertips. You move on what feels right, using your free arm to tangle your hand into his hair, tugging gently on it as you press yourself closer to him. With a weak hum he pushes nearer to you, and somehow you end up in his lap.

 _How_ , exactly, you got here escapes you for a moment, and the oddity of it all doesn’t ever occur to you, even years later. In truth, the circumstances _are_ very strange - you happened, by chance, to stay too late in a library, then a magic tablet brought a dead Egyptian King to life, and now you’re kissing him with more fervor than you’ve felt for anything or anybody. He goes as far as to slip his hands underneath your coat, shirking it off your back and pulling at your suspenders till they fall off your shoulders. Every stroke he makes on you, skin or cloth, electrifies you and you half expect him to be leaving a glowing path where his touch strays.

While he drags his hands anywhere you’ll let him touch, over your shoulders, down your chest to settle on your hips, you keep yours in place - one on his shoulder and the other on his cheek. Desperately he searches for your touch, longs for you to make a move but your techniques of love and worship are far different. He moves consistently, constantly, moving deeper into your kiss, tugging at your hair and pulling at the buttons at your shirt - you stay in place, too enraptured in each and every touch that his method nearly sends you into overload. Yet, even as your shirt is thrown to the ground, you can’t find yourself able to part from him. Sensory overload or no, there’s nothing more heavenly than his touch, and there’s no greater show of reverence and exaltation in any life, in any time than there is that night.

You stay with him as long as you can, as long as you dare. Love is a newfangled wonder, not one you easily let go of, and you thank God and His angels that Ahkmenrah loves you dearer than anything - just as you love him.


	3. Kenny - Brought to your Knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Kenny get locked inside a 711. You haven't ever talked before, so it's an interesting experience. (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is the case for any gay/lesbian character in media, I will ONLY write for the gender they are attracted to. LGBT people get very little representation in the media and I think it's just straight up rude to ignore what's canon when stuff like that is so rarely canon. So, for Kenny, it will be male reader, though it is still readable by girls n such.

You were expecting rain. You even brought an umbrella along, tucked away in the side pocket of your backpack, but an umbrella clearly wouldn’t work very well. Snow fell harsh upon the earth, cold and freezing near instantly, making a very thick layer of snow trap you inside the 7-Eleven, the doors frozen shut despite the fact that the heating was still on.

How exactly one gets trapped inside a 7-Eleven with the only person they’ve ever _really_ loved probably needs some explaining, so let’s go back to the beginning; seven years ago. Seven years ago you transferred schools due to an unfortunate accident with a classmate, at least that’s what’s on your record. Half of you is grateful no one knows what really happened, but the other half wishes people knew you punched someone in the face hard enough to dislocate their nose. Though, looking at you, most people probably wouldn’t believe you, considering you haven’t got the strongest body structure. Your (at the time) new school was better than the last one in several ways, but the most important to you was the fact that it was a public school. There were horror stories about public schools, of unruly students and horrible teachers, and by god did you want to experience that - private school was far too clean, far too organized for your mind, and you were going slowly insane.

If there’s a term to describe you, it’d probably be ‘thrill seeker,’ if asshole can’t be said out loud. For the first couple of years you were a nuisance to classrooms, the well known class clown and always up for distracting the teacher (the history teachers were the easiest to distract, math teachers the hardest), and always ready to fight back for what you believed was right. Then came your first year of high school and you found the greatest thrill of all - boys.

Previously you hadn’t taken much of a romantic interest in either gender, and most people said it’d kickstart sometime in high school, which was about right - freshman year you had a crush on a boy named Everett. It wasn’t a particularly strong crush, not compared to your more recent crushes, but it was your first, and you knew exactly what you wanted to do. You wanted him to fall in love with you, hopelessly and endlessly, you wanted him to hang on your every word and dream of your affections… but you didn’t want to be in a relationship with him. No, you just wanted his adoration, and nothing more - only to lead him on and drop his heart to break it. When this didn’t happen and he didn’t fall in love with you, you realized that most boys are not attracted to other boys, and you became deathly silent when it came to crushes.

Several other boys (and _maybe_ a girl) caught your fancy in the remainder of freshman year, but there was one boy you hadn’t yet met that would become the greatest thrill of all. Junior year you had a class with him, and on the first day of school when you walked into English class your bag fell from your hands, clattering to the floor with a loud _thump_.

He is _perfect_ , in every conceivable way he’s everything you’ve ever imagined, shy and kind, sincere and genuinely interesting - just the sight of him from that day on and your heart speeds up tenfold. You’re a horror story that teachers talk about, so Mr. Davis is clearly flabbergasted at your silence, and for the most part he leaves you alone even though you’re barely paying attention to the blackboard at the front of the classroom. Instead your attention is focused on the boy sitting two seats in front of you and a row to the right. It’s almost surprising he hasn’t noticed your staring, but clearly Mr. Davis notices because about two months into the school year he pulls you aside to talk about it.

“I wanted to talk to you about your attention,” he says quietly, sitting behind his desk as you stand at the other side. You’re playing absentmindedly with your fingers, barely listening to him, only staying where you are to avoid another hour of detention today. “I know you’re usually very loud in class, word gets around easily here, but you’re staring at your classmate a lot.”

“And?” You ask, not really seeing the point. In your mind, he should be thankful you’re not a disruption.

“Is… is there anything you want to tell me? About Kenny?”

“Who’s Kenny?”

“… that’s the boy you keep staring at,” he says slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion.

 _Ah_ , you think to yourself. _That’s his name._

“Listen, (Y/N), I want you to know you’re always welcome in my classroom. This is a safe space for you, okay?” His voice goes to a whisper as he says, “I have a boyfriend, so we aren’t so different after all.”

“I’m not gay,” you spit out quickly, the venomous tone of your voice not deterring him.

“I know it can be hard to admit at first, and at your age I understand the confusion within yourself. Just know you can talk to me, okay? And _try_ to pay more attention in class? I know you’ve got it in you.”

Without word you pick your backpack up from the floor, slinging it onto your shoulders and leaving. Just as you exit the main doors, noting the dark clouds low in the sky, you’re called back by one of the vice principals, ordering you to your detention.

“C’mon, it’s Friday,” you groan, walking backwards to stare at the teacher as you walk away.

“I’ll call your parents!” She threatens, whipping her flip phone out of her pocket.

“Oh yeah? What are they gonna do? Fuck off,” you laugh, throwing double middle-fingers at her, which lands you in three hours of detention.

At five thirty you’re released, an absolutely sour look on your face as you walk down the pavement. There’s a seedy part of the city that has a 7-Eleven you’ve been to so often you know the workers’ shifts. All of them are pretty nice, though all very tired of life and if you had to hazard a guess, mildly suicidal. At least that’s the look in their eyes, and you don’t blame them - customer service is one of the most horrid jobs in history. Friday evenings Alan has shift, and he’s rather nice, but upon opening the freezing door to the inside, you don’t see him. The door shuts behind you and you wander the aisles for a little while - you don’t have much change, you note as your fingers fiddle with the coins and bills in your coat pocket.

Several minutes later your attention is brought to the weather - it’s snowing, bad, and you groan internally at the wind force practically blowing down the stop sign out front. The few trees that survive in the city are barely hanging on now, flimsy limbs and branches ripping away from the main trunk. Again you groan, a grimace on your face when you think about having to go home in that. With a calming sigh you turn back to the hotdogs, spinning slow and peaceful in the warm light.

 _Heaven is one big 7-Eleven_ , you think to yourself. One of the very few things that calms you down is rotating hot dogs that probably aren’t real meat.

From the corner of your eye you can see someone else enter, but the wind blasting through the doors is enough for you to turn your head.

It’s _Kenny_. 

Of course it’s him.

Gulping you turn back to the hot dogs, hoping beyond belief that Alan will get back soon. Kenny is the only person that’s ever rendered you speechless, the only one that’s ever made your cheeks blush without a word. Even in fluorescent light he seems to glow, peaceful and careful as his fingers drag a feather touch across a row of snacks. He hasn’t noticed you, not yet, so you have time to plan out how to hide from him. Instantly you turn to the cash register, wondering if you’d get kicked out of Alan found you hiding behind the counter.

Too late - you can feel his eyes turn to you, burning into the back of your neck as you hold a viselike grip on the edge of the plastic red counter.

“Um, do you, uh, work here?” He asks, now standing directly behind you. Trying to smile, you turn to face him, feeling your heart burn with the speed it beats at.

“No, I - I just know the guys who work here, I don’t know where they are now, though,” you say, oversharing a little bit and praying he doesn’t notice. He’s _right in front of you_ , half confused as his lips part just barely, brows furrowing above grey eyes. You can practically feel your legs giving out beneath you, but he turns to the door before you fall in front of him. Practically gasping for air as he leaves your personal space, you watch as he goes to open the door.

“Is… is this supposed to be locked?” He asks.

“No, it shouldn’t be,” you breathe out, making your way over to the door to try and open it. It’s stuck, hard - you even back up to kick it and it doesn’t budge.

“Wait, you’re… you’re (Y/N), aren’t you?”

“You know me?” You ask incredulously, even though it’s not that farfetched that he would know your name.

“Of course I do, you’re like a legend at school,” he says, getting quieter as his sentence ends. As he fiddles with his fingers, awkwardly trying to look somewhere else, you can’t help but stare as you nearly always do.

“I’m flattered,” is what you manage to say, just as choked and embarrassed as him.

“I’ll stay out of your way, just - just don’t beat me up?” He requests, holding his hands up defensively as he backs away towards the corner of the small store.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I don’t do that,” you say, taken aback by his words. You know your reputation isn’t great, but you didn’t think it was _that_ awful - you’d never beat up an innocent person and you didn’t plan on starting. “What are you doing here anyway? I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Um, my friend… he told me to meet him at the library, but the weather got bad and I needed to get inside,” he explains, still not meeting your eye.

 _God you’re perfect_ , you think to yourself in reaction to nothing in particular - he’s just so beautiful, so supple you can’t help but wonder what he’d feel like with his bare skin against yours. More than anything you want to belong to him, which you realize is strange for you; generally you enjoy others belonging to you, but… Kenny is different for no reason, but he’s so incredibly special you can’t understand your infatuation beyond the fact that it’s insurmountable and achingly enduring.

“I might be able to make a flamethrower,” you say, trying to think of ways to not be suffocated by nearness to the object of your unending affections.

“Wait, a flamethrower? What -“ he follows you frantically as you begin to search for flammable sprays - “what for!?”

“The door is frozen shut, we might be able to get out if I melt the ice away,” you say quickly, but he’s pulling at your arms to stop you from digging through the shelves. At the force you whirl around, face to face with him as your chest practically touches his, and in an instant you can’t breathe for fear of losing the moment. You both pause, frozen into shock before he steps back like you’re poison.

“I don’t think that’s, uh, necessary,” he says slowly, and just as slow you agree, nodding as you put the lighter away.

“Sure. You have a phone?”

“No, you?”

“I keep mine at home,” you mumble, untensing as the adrenaline of the moment fades away.

“Well this sucks,” he huffs, crossing his arms and turning awkwardly to the shelves as though he didn’t want you to see his face. “At least it could be worse.”

“No, don’t say that, the power’s gonna go -“

Darkness falls over the store and the heating system goes quiet, the dull background hum going out. A loud sigh comes out of you, letting your eyes accustom to the dark before thinking of what to do next.

“I think we might be stuck here till morning,” you grumble, the dim light of streetlamps casting a gold glow over the various rows and, of course, putting Kenny in a perfectly beautiful light. You can practically _feel_ the blood rushing into your cheeks, and you quickly look away with crossed arms.

“I’m… sorry,” he says rather suddenly, just barely making his way closer to you.

“It’s not your fault,” you sigh. “A beautiful coincidence.”

“… beautiful?” He asks, confused by your wording - it can’t possibly be a good thing to him.

“Yeah, I -“ you look over at him, fiddling anxiously with his fingers as he looks up at you - “Never mind. You tired?”

“No, don’t think i will be for a while,” he says, sitting with his back against the refrigerated drinks, the back of his head clunking against the cold glass.

“I’ll get a flashlight and a boardgame,” you tell him, the only idea in your head that didn’t sound stupid; the entire time you’re looking through the back for games, you’re kicking the thought of cuddling him out of your mind. The situation is perfect, far too perfect for it to work out well. Besides, these types of things generally don’t work out for you - as previously said, you’re a bit of an asshole, and that trait has a tendency to screw you over.

He just sits and waits, and when you come back a good five or ten minutes later, he’s still sitting in the same position. It strikes you as odd how he hasn’t even fidgeted considering how much he was doing it earlier, but you just shine the light in his face and cackle when he winces away from the brightness.

“All they had is chess. I guess Marie took back her game, which is fair,” you add as you sit yourself down across from him, putting the box in the middle of you two. “She got fired a while back and didn’t get her game when she left. I helped get her a key for the backroom,” you recall, chuckling, but Kenny looks partially terrified, so you stop.

“You know how to play?” He asks, rubbing his hands together as he starts setting it up.

“A bit. My brother tried to teach me when we were little, I never caught on much though,” you say, thinking distantly of how your brother was doing in university. “He’s a big math guy, loves strategy games like this.”

“So you don’t like strategy…?” He asks slowly, as though worried he’d offend you - you just shrug.

“It’s not that. I’m… just more of a romantic guy.”

For a good three seconds he doesn’t breathe, but when you raise your eyebrows questioningly, he picks up again with an absent nod. Once the last pieces are set into place, he does a quick run-through of the rules, and by the end of it you’re fully aware you’re going to lose at least the first few rounds. Neither of you have a grasp on time as you go through the first round, then the second, and onto the third - you lose very fast, that’s all you’re aware of. He’s sweet about it, for which you’re confused if not thankful. If you were to play chess with some of the people you hang with, they’d be mean about winning and they’d cheat on you, which is fair; you’d do the same to them. Now you’re being nice, trying to actually understand the game, and he’s being a complete sweetheart about teaching you the rules.

It isn’t something you’re used to, but it’s something you could be used to, and something you _want_ to be used to - this sort of kindness. Despite all the thoughts running rampant in your head you manage to stay concentrated on the game - well, him more so than the game - and it almost feels like he might like you. _That’s an improvement,_ you think to yourself, recalling his initial fear of you.

“Could I ask you something? If you don’t mind,” he requests after you both come down from a laughing high, and you agree easily. It’s only far too easy to be open with him. “There’s lots of stories that go around about you - there’s this one, this one’s my favorite, mostly because I don’t think it really happened, but it is _really_ funny.”

“Really? Well, rumors are half right sometimes. What horrid thing did I do this time?” You ask, using the bottle opener on your swiss knife to pop open a beer bottle.

“It’s mostly just… inappropriate, not that it was a particularly ‘bad’ thing. I heard you… slept with Isla and Gianna like, at the same time, like every high school boys’ dream. The guy I heard tell it said you snuck into a sleepover or something?” He says slept like it’s disgusting, so that paired with absolutely everything else about him you assume he’s very unexperienced.

“That’s an interesting story, which I - I don’t usually tell the truth about,” you confess, waiting for him to make his next move in the game, but the moment never comes. He’s far too engrossed in your conversation, and as wonderful as it feels to be having a real conversation with your crush, you can’t help but hate the subject.

“Will you tell the truth this time?” He asks, quiet and sincere in a way that you don’t fully expect. It pushes you to trust him just a little bit more, and it’s all you need for the truth to come out for the first time about that story.

“I went to sell them some weed because they called me up n’ said they’d pay the price for bothering me so late at night, so y’know, I said ‘fuck it,’ you only live once right? I climbed into Gianna’s window for this too, and then they offered for me to share it with them. To be fair to myself I wasn’t feeling… too great about myself,” you grow quiet, “so I said yes. And then they started bringing up sex, and they kept trying to get me to make a move on them, but I wasn’t really feeling it. I didn’t want to do it, but it.. sort of happened anyway?”

He’s quiet, sort of nodding his head but he’s too far in thought to commit to the motion fully.

“Why haven’t you told anyone the truth before?” Is what he asks at first, and you breathe out a sigh of relief when you realize it’s one of the easier questions.

“Didn’t want to seem like a pussy, that’s why,” you scoff, taking a smooth swig from your bottle. “It’s not a big deal anyway.”

“Kind of sounds like it,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, that’s because you’re a virgin,” you say, that asshole part of yourself that you were so worried about earlier rearing it’s ugly head. Right on time too, right when you could’ve opened your heart.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin. You know what they say,” he says defensively, leaning back against he glass.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“The safest sex is no sex at all.”

“Yeah, and abstinence won’t get you pregnant 99.99% of the time,” you laugh. When he just looks confused, you explain, “Virgin Mary, dude.”

He opens his mouth to let out a tiny ‘oh,’ and at last the game is resumed. Throughout the next several rounds he asks more questions, but those times he doesn’t ever lose track of the game turns. By the end of the night, when you’re both finally yawning with dewey eyes, you’ve only won one round, which you’re very proud of.

“At least I beat you once,” you remark as you help him look for blankets to stay warm with. “I won a round against Mr. Chess Master.”

“And I won fourteen rounds against Mr. Sex,” he says, his eyes bulging out of his head as his hand slaps over his mouth once he realizes exactly what he’s said. You turn to him, shocked yet pleasantly surprised to find him so flustered. Dreadful is how you’d describe him, dreading your full reaction.

“Those aren’t the rounds that matter if I’m Mr. Sex,” you respond, trying to remain as smooth and deep as possible when you wink to punctuate your sentence. His mouth falls open when his hand drops back to his side, and you walk out of the storage room with a small smile.

You heave a massive sigh, gathering yourself back together once the door shuts behind you. It only takes a few seconds before he’s following you, but it’s all that’s necessary for you to gain your chill again.

“It’ll probably be easier to sleep back here,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the entirety of the backroom - it’s a tad warmer and carpeted, which is a plus for comfort. The one office chair is cheap and heavily scratched by god knows what, so you roll it into the corner and lay out a blanket on the floor. It’s not an especially nice blanket, which is what you expected. The only real source of warmth you have access to is the leftover coats from employees who didn’t care to take theirs home.

As you lay down on the blanket, covering yourself in a too-large trench coat, you wonder of the different ways the evening could progress. In fact it’s all you can think about, all your brain can stress about when Kenny lies down right beside you. He has his coat as a pillow, and without word you offer your coat to help cover him - he declines, mumbling something about how he’s already warm.

 _I could kiss him right now,_ you think, the thought sending shivers of anxious excitement and fear through your veins. He’s staring at the ceiling, and though your body is facing the same direction you’re looking at him, watching the slow movement of his chest and the tired blinking of his eyes. _Or we could leave and never talk again._

You don’t know what you’re doing, hardly aware of your own movements as the back of your fingers caress the side of his face, pushing unruly hair away from his eyes. His breath catches in his chest for a moment before he turns to you, eyes wide but curious despite the obvious fear.

“You’re really handsome,” he barely gets out, a whisper that he stumbles over. Judging by his uncertainty in himself you’re confident in saying he’s being sincere - that and the fact that nothing about him insinuates he’d lead you on like that. There’s so many silent words shared between you, a bond that one hold tights while the other wonders how it’s possible.

 _One wrong move_ , you think, _one wrong move and I fuck this up, just like everything else._ The urge to hold him close, to grab his hands and keep them intertwined in your own runs strong through your cold fingertips, but you wait. You wait for him to make the first move, but he doesn’t even blink; he’s far too enraptured in the way your lips part just slightly, the way your eyelashes flutter when you glance nervously up and down.

“I really like you,” you say, though the words don’t fully come from your conscious self. Something grabs you, ties away your thoughts and says what you mean - exactly what you mean, something you hardly ever do. He reaches up towards your hand lying dormant beside his cheek, trailing over your skin till he tangles his fingers in yours, holding your hand tight in his as he presses a kiss to your knuckles. The entire time you stare, watching his eyes flit downwards as a blush you can barely see in the dark crawls up into his face.

In a swift movement the old coat is off of you, crumpled in some corner as you rest your forearms on either side of his head, supporting your body held above him. His breathing picks up and at last he finally looks into your eyes again, careful to watch for any sign of what comes next, but even you aren’t sure as to what you’re doing. Still you move down, inching closer till your lips press against his.

He’s clearly startled, even though he immediately moves against you, kissing up into you even if his hands don’t know where to go. In your position you can do very little, but you manage to thread your hand into his hair, tugging on it lightly as you move deeper, pulling a tiny, broken hum from him. When his hands wrap around your wrists it’s painfully obvious he’s never done this before, so you break away, letting the both of you breathe and smile when it’s finally, fully, consciously realized what just happened. It’s so starkly different than any other romantic encounter you’ve had, so openly loving and yielding you wonder if you’ll ever be able to kiss anyone but him again.

“I’ve waited so long to do that,” you murmur, letting your head fall into the crook of his neck. He almost laughs, breathy and unsure as he runs his fingers down your spine.

“You could’ve done it sooner,” he tells you, whispering the words into your ear, his lips tickling the edge of it as he speaks. “I’ve had a crush on you for months.”

“Really?” You ask, pulling away to look at him fully. He stammers when you rest your weight on his hips, the heat of your thrill burning through the layers of clothes to intoxicate him. “I haven’t ever seen you look at me once in class.”

“We have class together?”

“I sit behind you, Kenny. English class,” you chuckle, watching his lips purse together in embarrassment.

“I mostly watch you during lunch. I - I never said anything because… well, you know why,” he mumbles, once more unsure of where his hands are supposed to go, so he crosses them on his chest.

“I know,” you say, quiet as you think over your words. “You still could’ve come up to me, but… this works too.”

He breaks into a grin, giggling when you join him till you’re both coming down from a high - as the wide grins dissolve into contented smiles, you kiss again, moving slow and soft, softer than the girls you’d been with, sweeter and more innocent than any love you’ve known.

“It’s strange you know,” you mumble against his lips, interrupting yourself by kissing him again. “I usually go for degenerates, you know, people like me?” You kiss him again, deep and needy - “but God, I’ve never adored someone as much as I adore you.”

“Really?” He manages to get out amidst your attack, trying to get ahold of a rhythm you could kiss him to but you’re chaotic, switching from his lips to his jawline and pressing kisses up his neck.

“Yeah,” you rasp out, the beginnings of a hickey blooming red on his neck.

“Oh, I - oh, don’t leave a mark,” he says, but by the way he tugs at your hair and pulls you closer, you’re sure he really wants you to.

“Let me guess, strict parents?” You ask, pulling away to look at your work. He nods as though it’s something to be ashamed of, but you just sigh and smile, tracing his jawline with your fingers. “This is probably the only time we’ll be able to make lots of noise, though.”

“You mean this’ll happen more times?”

“If you want it to. I want it to,” you say, watching as he nods furiously.

“Yes, _please_ ,” he practically whimpers, pulling you in for another searing kiss, his new ferocity biting at your lips and making you moan. You’re grinding on him, hardly realizing your actions before you’re both far too worked up from the friction.

“Fuck, I need you,” you say, your hands going up his shirt to scratch at the soft skin there.

“I haven’t ever done this before,” he tells you, almost glaring at you when you mumble, ‘I knew it,’ but the glare is quickly cut short when you palm at him through his jeans.

“Do you want this? We don’t have to, you deserve better,” you stop for a moment, letting your hand grip at his hip while the other strokes soothingly through his hair.

“Better than a quick fuck in the back room of a 7-Eleven? Probably,” he says, a smile breaking across your face at his humorous tone. There’s a delight that runs through you when you hear him swear, but you try not to think about it. “But I don’t think either of us are gonna be able to sleep well with… this.”

“Fair enough,” you say with a shrug, pulling him back into a kiss.

With fumbling hands he works at your pants, managing to unbutton the ragged material and push them partially down your hips. You do the same for him before pulling his shirt off, kissing down what you find to be a surprisingly toned chest. For as much as he’s bullied he’s incredibly attractive and rather fit, and for a second you wonder _why_ he’s bullied so much, before remembering a lot of people are pretty racist, and the whole ‘being gay’ thing was pretty obvious to everyone.

A long, saccharine moan is pulled from his lips, forcing you to think only of him. At the sound you practically gape, a sudden virility going straight to your cock, which is now straining painfully against your boxers. You can’t remember what it was you did that made him moan like that, so you do everything you think could work - it proves a lot for him to handle. Tiny gasps leave him as you trace your fingernails over his chest, biting tiny love marks into his ribs as your own chest occasionally rubs against his crotch.

“(Y/N), please, just friggin’ touch me,” he whines, his head thrown back and staring blankly at the ceiling, too focused on the sensations to care. You almost laugh at his desperation, but when he grabs your hair and practically grinds his dick into your face, you don’t. As demanding as it is you can’t help but acquiesce. You mouth at him through the fabric, and by the time he’s begging you again there’s a prominent wet spot on his underwear from where you sucked. When at last you begin to pull them down he looks at you, watching intently with flushed cheeks as he’s fully exposed to you.

Standing, you undress yourself, making a little show of it when you notice him staring. The moment you finish you’re back on him, just as needy as he is when your bare cock brushes up against his; his shoulders shake at the contact, and he falls back onto the floor, his eyes shut tight. To soothe the ache you kiss him, as tender as it was when you first kissed, and he finally lets out an anxious breath when you part.

“Tell me what you want,” you murmur, running your hand slowly down his chest till you reach his waist, your fingers just barely curling around him and pumping slower than what he deems should be possible.

“I just need you, anything, please,” he replies, breathy and still as wanting as ever.

“God, you really like begging for me, don’t you?” You tease, smirking when he just whines as you speed up your pace. With a kiss to his neck you whisper in his ear, “I love hearing you moan, though.”

“Then make me moan,” he says thoughtlessly, regretting his words when you smirk and move down his body. Regret is the last thing on his mind however, once you wrap your lips around the tip of his dick, sucking and practically drooling as you pump him.

“You taste wonderful,” you hum, attempting to take him deeper.

As experienced as you are it’s chiefly with girls (even if you aren’t as attracted to them, it’s just easier to pretend like you are), and this would technically be the first time you’ve sucked dick. It’s a lot harder than girls make it seem, you note to yourself, but try to take him deeper anyway. A long whine tumbles from his lips when you both realize you don’t have a very strong gag reflex and take him to the hilt, sucking and still roaming the expanse of his thin waist with your hands. He’s close, you can feel him twitch in your mouth, paired with the precum dripping off him and into you, but he yanks you away by your hair and pulls you up for another passionate kiss.

“What about you?” He asks, panting, and you almost laugh again - it’s so odd for someone to ask about you first.

“The sight of you like this is enough for me,” you assure him, laying wet kisses that have his eyes fluttering into the back of his head down his neck and onto his shoulder.

As you continue pumping him, focusing the majority of your energy on sucking a hickey into his skin, you hardly notice yourself grinding against him. In fact you only realize you’re doing it when his legs wrap around your hips, pulling you in till your cocks are slotted next to each other, both achingly hard. The intensity of it has both of you coming soon after, the imprint of your nails a semi-permanent fixture on Kenny’s hips, paired well with the blossoming hickey on his clavicle. He’s not the only one marked up by the end, though - angry red streaks line your back from his scratching, and you only notice when you collapse on your back beside him.

“Would you happen to have a rag?” He asks, both of you breaking into giggles soon after.

“I’ll go get paper towels,” you offer, reaching for your underwear before realizing you need to clean up before putting on clothes. Instead you peck his forehead, leaving him smiling as you leave the room.

Eventually you’re both cleaned up, clothes on, and the trench coat is covering the both of you, cuddled tight in the back room of 7-Eleven. When the story gets out, as all stories do at some point, there’s a lot of varying accounts on what happened in the night. The most popular, and probably your least favorite, was that you terrorized him the entire night, and though most people don’t believe it considering how close you and Kenny act, it’s still the most popular. Another theory was that you introduced him to drinking and you stayed up with him all night, drunk out of your minds; you don’t mind that story as much, but he does, so you try to tell people that isn’t what happened.

He does ask at one point if he’s allowed to talk about your relationship, and your answer is an ardent yes, which surprises him. You adore every part of him, and you find no shame in that, even if he thinks you should. Sure, you do get bullied a lot more, but it’s nothing brass knuckles don’t sort out quickly.

It’s an odd pairing, you acknowledge that. Punk doesn’t usually go well with sweetheart nerd, but it works surprisingly well, and for that you’re endlessly grateful. In-between classes you run by his locker even though you’re on separate sides of the school, always kissing him before each class. Your little expeditions leave you late to every class but English, and by the end of the year all your teachers hate you as usual with the exception of Mr. Davis.

“You concentrate a lot better these days. Did my talk help you out any?” He asks after class one summer day. Kenny is waiting outside the class, so you try to find a quick answer.

“Well… a little. I talked to Kenny at least,” you answer with a smile, bidding him a kinder good-bye than you usually give your teachers, saluting him as you close the door.

“Everything alright?” Kenny asks, walking shoulder to shoulder with you down the empty halls of the school.

“Everything’s perfect, sugar,” you answer, your arm hanging around his shoulders.


	4. Elliot - bilita mpash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilita mpash (bantu, n.) - the opposite of a nightmare; not merely a good dream, but a blissful state where all is forgiven and forgotten. Angst.

It isn’t often that Elliot dreams, or in the least remembers his dreams – the emotions they give linger with him, setting his heart in misery or in joy, but he doesn’t often remember the actual events. The ones he does remember he doesn’t want to. They tear at his psyche, blind his sanity and bleed his empathy till he doesn’t care to have anything but chaos. He can’t be bothered with the inner workings of his mind, the way his thoughts twist and warp his world view, their method of sick survival. No, dreams are not for him; he does fine on his own and does not care to remember them, since a fair majority of them are not worth recalling.

There’s a softness in the air he rarely lets himself feel, something alive with a heart beating only for him. Above him the sky hangs an alarming shade of pink, and though he can’t fully see himself, he knows he’s not wearing what he should be. Instead, he’s wearing some sort of Grecian robe – a white cloth that covers his body and drips fine silk from his arms. For once the world stays still, and for once he can note the roughness of his fingertips, the blades of the grass, the faint scent of peaches drifting on a fluttering breeze that the leaves and branches dance to.

Nothing grates at his mind – no wonder on his safety, no query for his senses. For better or worse he does not question who he is, what he stands for, why he’s here. There’s a softness in the air and for the first time he can truly feel it.

He sits at the edge of a lake, the water so clear he sees the bottom fifteen feet below the surface. The shore, while sandy, is lined with well cut grass and soft moss, a welcome comfort on his weary feet, and something easy to fidget with as he stares up into the sky. A spattering of clouds stretch across it, distinct from the vibrant pink and easy on the eyes.

When he feels the slightest touch on his shoulder he jumps, ready to stand and move far away, but when he catches your well-meaning eye he stops entirely. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t blink, he can’t even breathe – it’s been so long since he’s known the comfort of your presence, the twinkling love that has never left your smile. He hesitates, unsure of what to say, stuttering out meaningless sounds as you sit beside him. Sighing contently, you stare off towards the distant mountains. Yet he can’t seem to enjoy you, and the peace of loneliness leaves him, as he’s unable to tear his gaze away from you. It has to be years since he’s seen you, years since he’s even bothered to look at a photograph – what he misses plagued him so harshly that even the thought of you made him sick. So he avoided you, pictures of you, things you loved, things you gave him, the equanimity you let him feel around you.

It’s been so, so long since he’s seen you, and the sight of you and your soft curves and sharp bones burns tears into his eyes that fall like hellfire down his cheeks. It has been so, so long, and he never stopped missing you.

“When did…” what is he supposed to say to someone who regretted knowing him? “How…”

“I missed you. Thought I’d stop by… I was beginning to forget your face,” you say in a soft voice, and something inside his heart tears when you turn to him with your saccharine smile. “Did you miss me, too?”

“I do – or I did.. I missed you,” he stutters through, unable to think straight as your eyes bore straight into him. You’ve always had a knack for that, something you called soul-searching, and while it’s uncomfortable he can’t deny that it’s a gift, one that he might still even miss.

“You’re sweet like that,” you say, cupping his cheeks in your hands and smiling like he’s the most precious thing in the world. You’d give anything for him, you said that once – he wonders if you still would.

“I’m not sweet, you’re just – you’re… different,” he mumbles, unable to fully meet your gaze.

“That’s not true and you know it,” you giggle, leaning in closer. “I’m much like everyone else. You aren’t, though, you’re so loved, _so loved_ … I hope you’ve remembered that.”

“I don’t…” he can feel tears welling up in his eyes again, their nauseating burn reaching all throughout his head. You stroke your thumb over his cheek, catching the tears that fall, loving away every scar he’s given himself.

“Oh, Elliot,” you hum, moving ever closer, your lips brushing down from his temple to his jaw.

Everywhere you go you leave kisses in your path, electrifying down his neck towards his clavicle. When you reach there, you breathe hot against his skin, forcing a sharp inhale from him as you continue to massage with your hands, caressing every part of himself he despises, every part he can’t bear others touching. But you’re warm, a quality so rare he melts into it, wrapping his hands around your waist and pulling you closer. You mimic him, holding him so close you nearly sit in his lap. He feels you, every part of you, every vein and heartbeat, every blemish and weakness as you press into him, your face hidden in the crook of his neck as you breathe deep.

“I missed you, so much,” you repeat in a muddled voice, and he’s still in shock from the first time you said it. You don’t seem to notice, though, caught up in his affections and melting into his touch like you did so long ago.

Jumping upright, he can feel his chest heave in his empty apartment, the first vestiges of dawn peeking through his windows. It all comes back to him, all of it, all the good that left him, every horribly memory, everything he’s spent so long forgetting.

You left him long ago, he remembers that now. He remembers you crying, saying, “I can’t do this, I’m so sorry, I can’t do this,” and he remembers letting you leave. He remembers your touch on his skin, the only one he could love, the sparks from when you kissed his temple, the blush that rose in your cheeks whenever you saw him. He remembers you loving him wholly, something he never thought he deserved, and now he knows he definitely never deserved it.

You left him long ago, and you did not return, not when he tried overdosing, not when he fell so low, not when he hated himself, not when he let addiction consume him.

You left him long ago, and you will never return.


	5. Ahkmenrah - Arcadian (Parts 1 and 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's simplicity in your way of life that he seldom finds in his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put together the first and second part. Originally it was going to be just one thing, but then someone said they'd like a part two and I aim to please so :)

Part 1

Generally speaking, he’s not _technically_ allowed to leave the palace, but there’s not exactly a rule in place keeping him there, either. It’s definitely telling when his heart races as guards turn the corner and he hides - that tells him he’s not doing the right thing. Not that he knows what the right thing is. All he knows is that his life is suffocating, what with his parents constant observation of him and his brothers’ hatred towards him. Besides that it’s apparent that _he’s_ going to become Pharaoh, which he hadn’t expected at any time in his life, and it’s not something he’s at all prepared for. So midnight of the day he publicly breaks down in front of his parents, his parents advisors, and his brother, he sneaks out his window and runs off into the desert.

It doesn’t take long before the reality of how bad of an idea this is hits him - the nile beside him runs slow, the water murky and unable to reflect the stars. He feels just as muddled as the water, and he crouches down beside it, heart heavy and thoughts full.

“You alright?” Comes a smooth voice from above him, startling him out of his kneeling position. He falls to the ground and looks up to find you - dressed in an unfamiliar fashion, a stranger who’s asking after his wellbeing.

“Um…” he can’t think of what to say, too unsure of who he is in your mind. “Yes. I just… was relaxing.”

“Ah,” you say with a nod, and you smile understanding at him. He lets out a sigh of relief and you kneel beside him, gathering water from the nile in the basket you hold in your arms. “So what’s your name?”

“Ahk -“ he almost says his full name - “Just Ahk.”

“Nice. I’m Ife. Nice to meet you,” you say with another smile, brighter than he imagines he’s ever smiled. “What brings you here?”

“I, uh… I don’t really know,” he mumbles with a shrug, shifting into a more comfortable sitting position. “I’ve just been really stressed. Had to get away.”

“That’s understandable. This is a nice place to unwind,” you say, grunting as you dump out the muddy water.

“Yeah.. um, what are you doing, exactly?”

“I wanted to capture a fish as a pet.”

“A _what_?”

“A fish pet. Father wouldn’t help me, so I thought I could do it by myself, but…” you glance out over the long stretch of the Nile, sighing forlorn. “I think I’ll just play with one for a while then release it. Sounds more humane.”

He shrugs, and you wade out into deeper waters, and place the basket between your legs, the slow water drifting into the basket. Making himself comfortable he watches you, chuckling softly when you swear quietly to yourself. Eventually you move deeper, till the water nearly comes up to your waist, which worries Ahkmen - you’re not exactly a very tall or strong-looking person. With a huff he stands, shirking his more expensive clothing and wading out into the water to meet you.

You don’t note his appearance with any sound or movement, so he stands behind you, making sure you don’t drift away, and he keeps an eye out for any predators. When you raise your basket one final time, a small fish the size of his pinkie finger is inside it, and you gasp delightedly, a brilliant smile shines on your face. Careful to balance the basket he helps you back, holding a firm grip on your upper arm in case you slip on anything.

At the edge of the shore, your bare feet dipped into the warm water, the basket sits between the two of you, and a very confused fish flitters back and forth.

“Do you live far from here?” He asks you after a moment of silence, and your stare at the fish breaks as you glance up at him.

“I live down the nile. It’s not too far if you want to visit?” You suggest quietly, examining him for any sign of either declining or accepting your offer. A soft blush creeps up his neck and into his cheeks as he looks nervously to the side - would your family recognize him?

“Uh, I don’t know, I… I wouldn’t want to intrude,” is what he comes up with, fiddling anxiously with his fingers. You shrug, looking down at the fish and swirling your finger in the water.

“It’s not a problem. I’m sure everyone’s still asleep anyway,” you say, your attention never drifting from a fish he considers to be quite plain, but maybe there’s something he can’t see that’s caught your interest. He looks down, and nope - still looks like a small, grey fish, not even reflective.

“I need to be back in Memphis by sunrise, at the latest,” he tells you, his shoulders tightening.

“Memphis? I’ve been there. Beautiful place,” you mumble distantly as the fish rubs up against your finger by accident. When the fish adamantly ignores you for a minute, you turn back to him, smiling sweetly. “I can make sure you’re back there if you’d like. Might be a nice break from your responsibilities.”

He can’t help but agree - a tense sigh leaves him and with another breath he relaxes. You ruffle his hair (no one’s ever done that before, and it shocks him that he likes it) and dump the water and the fish back into the nile. Standing, you help him to his feet and, tucking your basket underneath your arm, you lead the way to your village.

Your previous prediction turned out to be correct; no one was awake. The dying embers of a fire burn dim in the bonfire, and you sit down in front of it, Ahk at your side. You toss the basket behind you, scoot closer to your new friend, and lean against his shoulder. For a second he tenses, looking down at you, then forces himself to relax - for some unknown reason, he feels more special in this moment than he ever has before.

“You’re very nice, you know. You should be more careful with strangers,” he notes, wishing as soon as the words are out that he hadn’t said anything at all.

“I’m perfectly careful. I know how to defend myself, Ahk,” you giggle, leaning closer into his warmth despite the fact that it’s not an especially cold night. Sighing, he rests his cheek on the top of your head, staring up at the stars that glimmer in the dark swath of night.

You hum to yourself a melody he’s never heard, your voice barely there, fading in and out of existence in your tired state.

“What’s being a prince like?” You mumble, fumbling till you’re even closer to him, wrapping your arms to hug his left arm. He freezes - that _definitely_ wasn’t information he gave you.

“How’d you know I’m -“

“Clothes,” you answer before he finishes.

“Oh. Um, well… it’s a lot. Has its’ challenges, all very different from your life, I suppose,” he sums up, hoping he doesn’t offend you. He knows how lucky he is, and he knows that life for you is most likely harder than his own, even though you’re not responsible for a thousand people like he is.

“Good food?” You ask, your blinking slowing to a snail’s pace.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Good food.”

As the night progresses he finds himself reluctant to wake you, fast asleep on his shoulder, and even more reluctant to leave your haven. There’s a peace radiating through your village that he’s never felt before, a life far simpler and happier than his own, though the labor needed to stay alive he knows is grueling. Still, he stays there, by your side, and when he feels his own eyes grow heavy with exhaustion he lays the both of you down on the soft ground, his arm wrapped around you. You mumble incoherently in your sleep, scoot closer to him, and wrap your own arm round his waist. Distantly, he smiles to himself, and falls asleep.

Morning comes, and there’s a very large man above him, kicking him awake. Startled he jumps up, ready to apologize profusely before he sees you standing beside the man, a sleepy smile still apparent.

“Come on, let’s get you home,” you say, and wordlessly (and still blushing) he agrees, letting you lead the way.

It’s a somewhat cooler morning, and the water seems to be clearer than it was the night before. Birds fly about, singing cheerful songs along the banks of the nile. Soft wind blows through the trees, and you stop him by a date tree, climbing up it like you’ve done it a million times before, which he reckons you have.

“Breakfast,” you announce with a giggle, hanging upside down from the upper vestiges of the tree, shaking it so the fruit falls to the ground. Laughing at your antics he catches a few, quickly throwing them away when you release yourself from the tree. Just in time he catches you in his arms, and in thanks you peck his cheek, lighting a brilliant blush on them.

“By the way,” you begin once you’ve both eaten, “I’m sorry I broke my promise.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you I’d get you back to Memphis by sunrise. It’s far past that,” you say, looking up to the sun which lies a thumbs width above from the distant mountains. His father will most likely be angry with him and he knows this, but he just shrugs - no need to worry you and himself by extension.

“It’s alright. Nothing bad’ll happen, just my parents might be a little worried. They know I can handle myself though,” he tells you, and with a sigh, you nod, and release your anxieties.

“You’re welcome back at my home anytime you’d like, I don’t think my father dislikes you, which is saying something. He’s a little hard to please. I… I hope we can be friends,” you add at the end, quiet and more timid than he’s ever heard you.

“I hope so too,” he admits softly, and the two of you continue your walk in silence.

Eventually you find the discarded golden robes from last nights’ wade, and he quickly brushes them off, putting everything but the cape back on. Instead he wraps it around your shoulders, smiling bright when you blush at the gesture.

“Looks better on you,” he says, fluffing out the cape so it spreads like golden wings behind you.

“ _Belongs_ to you,” you chide with a quiet laugh, but you keep the cape on - it can’t hurt, you reason, for just a little longer. The material is the softest you’ve ever felt, an obvious relic of a royal. It’s light but warm, and you can’t help but giggle a little when you wrap yourself up in it.

He blushes sweetly at the image of you, wishing he could see you every day, and disheartened at the knowledge he can’t ever have you - not in any way that matters. But for the rest of the walk he ignores that little voice in his head, fidgeting with the gold bracelets on his wrists as he watches every idiosyncrasy of you.

At the gates of the city he reluctantly lets you leave him there, the golden cape back on his own shoulders. He stands there, feeling more lonely than ever till you vanish in the brush of the nile. An unexplainable urge courses through him, alighting every sense in him, and he runs after you - one more thing he has to do.

It’s not long before he catches up; you don’t walk very fast. He grabs your arm from behind and you jump, relaxing when you see it’s him.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, tilting your head curiously to the side. His heart melts at the sight and without second thought, he kisses the sweetest memory into you, moving innocently against your lips until you part with a shocked gasp.

“I… sorry, I -“

You move your hand up into his hair, weaving your fingers into it before you push him back down towards you, interrupting his speech with a kiss softer and impossibly more loving than his own. This time when you part it’s much more gentle, less of a shock, and much more human.

“I suppose I’ll see you again?” He asks, and the desperation in his voice is embarrassingly clear.

“Of course,” you answer with a wonderfully familiar smile.

Part 2

Every now and again he shows up out of the blue, and there’s no routine to his appearances either. Though, no one in your village is exactly mad about it - he’s a very nice boy, they remark, and more often than not they insinuate about your relationship with him, which is purely platonic according to you.

“He just kisses me every now and then,” you say whenever asked, which doesn’t help your situation, but everyone can see how much he dotes on you. It’s especially visible one summer afternoon when he pops by your home, knocking on the outside of your hut.

Peeking out, you grin at the sight of him, pulling him into a quick hug. As usual his touch lingers in different ways; a hand on your shoulder, fingers brushing against yours in a weak attempt at holding your hand. You hardly notice it at this point. It’s common, and you don’t put much stock in the idea that it means much more than friendship.

“I thought we could go fishing today,” Ahk suggests, and as much as you’d love to, you decline with a sad smile.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been given a job. I suppose I’ll have less time for you, but… well, if you want, you might be able to join me?” You suggest quietly, looking over his shoulder at the man you’re supposed to be following. He’s not as burly as your father, but he is much taller, and you’ve known him for a long time. He goes by the name of Madu, and he’s a shepherd who came to you with very little family.

“That.. I’d like that,” Ahk replies, tracing your line of sight to Madu, who is now glancing at the two of you and looking rather exasperated. “What is it exactly that you’re to do?”

“Well,” you say, hoisting a large, maroon coat around your shoulders and tying the belt, “I’m to apprentice him. He’s a shepherd. Not our usual job here, but we are self-sustaining.” Without thought he follows you, trailing behind as you catch up to Madu. He offers a very curt smile to the two of you, staying silent as you explain the particulars of the job - Ahk listens intently, always interested in what you have to say.

The sun is already high in the sky, and the heat is boiling beneath the many layers you wear. Ahk doesn’t understand the way you dress, often commenting that it’s much more comfortable to dress the way he does, in few layers and thin cloth. You don’t fully understand your village’s ways either, but you’re much too young to be commenting on them in a way that suggests you don’t like them. Besides, controversy isn’t really your thing, something Ahk picked up on rather quickly - you avoid most situations where an argument could arise.

In a grass laden valley a ways from the water of the nile, a herd of sheep graze in the desert sun. It’s a veritable paradise, at least that’s what Ahk thinks, watching you for your reaction. When he sees nothing, he assumes it’s not the first time you’ve been here. He’s right too - it’s around the third time, and as beautiful as it is, you’re a little numb to it.

The job isn’t that hard, and since you’re still an apprentice in the works, you’re allowed a little leeway; Madu works with the sheep, and you watch from a rock jutted out of the soft dirt. Ahk sits beside you, watching clouds drift aimlessly by, a listless wind cooling sun-warmed skin. At the sides of your tiny plateau sheep graze, their noises and hums a background for your conversation - Ahk lies down, feeling the warmth of the rock on his back and the sun on his face. You stay upright, watching Madu’s techniques as you keep a happily content conversation with him.

“So have you always wanted to be a shepherd?” He asks when you’re both fully up-to-date on each others lives. His memory isn’t the greatest, and it’s even worse compared to yours. Somehow you’ve managed to remember every little thing he’s told you, from his advisors to his brothers to the food he likes to eat. He tries his best remembering your own stories, and according to you, he’s doing just fine, though he can’t help but think he could do better.

“Well… it’s not something I _don’t_ want to do, specifically. I like the idea of it, I think,” you tell him vaguely, shrugging and digging at the sediment on the rock. “I don’t really want to be a beekeeper is all I know. It’s… I don’t know. I thought I wanted to be one but then you learn more about the job, and it’s not quite as appealing… you know?”

“I understand,” he mumbles, his hand drifting towards you to run up and down your arm. His skin is so much softer, so much cleaner than yours that it leaves a path trailing up the dirt that grows on your skin from your day to day activities. You’re so incredibly sensitive, he notes - whenever he touches you in a gentle fashion a shiver runs through your body, and you sit straighter than usual.

“I, um… I’ve told you that my village’s main source of income is honey and beeswax, right?”

“I think you’ve mentioned it,” he hums, still staring up at you like you’re a great wonder of the world. His hand stills, touching the side of your palm till he moves further in, sliding his hand over yours and intertwining the fingers. When you tighten the hold he makes his breath catches, and the wind stills for a moment to revel in the silence comforted by your presence.

Gazing up at you, he thinks to himself, _perhaps the world is manageable with you._ With another hum from him he sits up, scoots closer to you until your shoulders touch, and he kisses your temple. A giggle comes involuntarily from you, and you quickly cover your mouth in a weak attempt to hide it, but he just smiles - distant and loving, observing of every imperfection, and holds you closer.

“You should come visit me in Memphis, if you ever have the time,” he suggests quietly, and when you don’t respond he thinks he’s said something wrong - still, he waits for you to make a move.

“Father might be taking a delivery of honey to the city tomorrow. I might be able to visit you then,” you finally answer after a good deal of silence. He lets out a sigh of relief, relaxing and leaning into you once more.

“Have I ever told you how perfect you are?” He wonders aloud, turning to fully face you. Slowly his hands trail over your shoulders and up to your face, drawing a line down your cheek, tracing over your jawline - you mumble something, blushing a deep red and unable to meet his eye.

“Ife! Are you paying attention?” Madu calls from the entrance of the tiny valley, breaking the trance of your friendship too loving to be what you imagine it to be.

“Yes, um… yes, do you need me?” You ask, trying to hide your laugh when Ahk sighs, disappointed as he rolls his eyes, staring up at the sky.

“No,” he says with a laugh, “just making sure you’re not too preoccupied with your… _friend_.”

Ahk grumbles, resting his head on your shoulder. Laughing you attempt at comforting him, ruffling his hair in the way he likes. Every time you do so, you feel a little more special; he doesn’t let anyone else do it, at least that’s what he tells you, and you’re inclined to believe him. He hasn’t ever lied before, and you don’t believe he’s capable of lying to you - he’s far too sweet to you for that.

“I best be heading home anyway,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by your shoulder. “I’ve got a meeting to attend with my father.”

“Anything interesting happening?”

“Not really. Someone enacted justice before asking Pharaoh so now he’s a little angry.”

“A little?”

“A lot,” he chuckles, leaning back from his hiding spot in the crook of your neck. “I’ll see you on that honey delivery then? Where should I meet you?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never been, remember?”

“Oh, right,” he chuckles rather sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then shall I meet you at the city gates?”

“Sounds just fine,” you agree, smiling softly as you plant a kiss on his cheek - something you rarely ever do. Before he can think to respond in any way you jump off the rock, following Madu and directing the sheep with your own staff, smaller than his but just as intricate. He waves a good bye, a dreamy smile stuck on his face even though you don’t look back.

The next morning he wakes up early, anticipation running thick through his veins as he’s dressed by servants. In the floor length mirror in his room he fluffs out his robes, admiring how they fit him, and wondering if you’d ever notice it - you have a keen eye, but fashion isn’t something you note often. He doesn’t blame you for that, you don’t exactly have the time to focus on what you look like, not like he does at least. Still he hopes he looks alright for you, if only to boost his own confidence.

Before he leaves the palace his father requires him to take a few guards with him, and despite his reluctance it’s forced upon him, and he’s soon walking down the streets with a guard on either side of him. It feels more like he’s being escorted to jail rather than going to meet a friend, but the feeling melts away when he sees you and your family just barely entering the gates of the city.

He rushes towards you, leaving his guards behind you, gathering your small frame up in a big hug, even lifting you off the ground and spinning you round. You laugh, delighted at his excitement if not a little confused.

“Ahk, I saw you yesterday, you know,” you giggle when he sets you down - you keep your hands on his shoulders, just as he keeps his on your waist.

“I know, I’m sorry - I’m just happy you’re here. I want to show you my home is all,” he says, smiling brighter than ever, even when your father pats him with a too-strong grip on his shoulder.

As he leads you through the streets crowded with people, your awe is plain to see; pillars tower above you, all decorated in intricate paintings and murals of life. There’s probably more people in this one place than you’ve ever met in your entire life, and each one interests you - your father has to grab you by the back of your shirt to drag you away from each stall. A fair amount of people are interested in you as well - you’re clearly natives to the land, but you’re dressed oddly, and your father and brothers carry a massive train of honeypots behind them which disrupts the usual flow of traffic.

To each sight that catches your eye he explains the usage and history, pointing out every detail you can’t see. During your trip to your fathers’ delivery spot he tries to hold your hand, and probably would’ve been successful if your father hadn’t been staring intensely at the back of his head. Eventually you meet the steps of the palace, your mouth hanging open at the pure size of the building. He just laughs at your state of shock, patting your shoulder and telling you, “that’s my home.”

It confuses him, just slightly, as to why your family begins to go around the palace, reaching the back to where the steps to the storeroom are, till he finally realizes in a moment of pure shock and coincidence; your village is the main supplier of the palace honey.

“You didn’t tell me your family was our main supplier,” he says quietly, standing beside you as your family and several servants load the jugs down into the storeroom.

“I wasn’t aware of it,” you mumble, just as surprised by the coincidence as he is. “Perhaps that’s why my father trusted you so easily.”

“Not because of my charm and boyish good looks?”

“I don’t think so,” you laugh, leaning into him as you do so.

When at last the delivery is finished, your father begins to deal with payment - one of the Pharaoh’s advisors comes down, sorting out the financial dues and all the things you and Ahk don’t care in the least for. One of your brothers tells you in a hushed whisper that this part always takes the longest, so when your father isn’t looking, Ahk pulls you away, through streets you don’t know and into a little corner where a bench sits, the tight walls of the alley covered lush in green vines.

“I wonder if you could stay the night,” he says to you, seated beside you and holding your hands in his own. This little area of the city is quiet, almost as quiet as your own home - before you answer you take a good, long look at your friend, and decide in a decision you’ve never consciously made before that he’s very handsome.

“I’m not sure my father would think that to be entirely appropriate,” you answer bashfully, turning away with the ghost of a smile playing at your lips.

“It’s only fair, since I’ve spent the night with you often, and your family has always been so hospitable.”

“Well…” you glance to the side, then back at him - “I suppose I could always ask.”

“I’ll ask, that way it seems more like I’ve invited you and less like you’ve invited yourself,” he offers, and when you nod he smiles, the decision made as the two of you leave the privacy of the little corner.

It goes over a lot better than he thought would, though a lot worse than you wished it to be. He’s hesitant as always, gesturing his answer to your brother who translates the words to Ahk.

“Are you sure it’s not going to be an issue with Pharaoh?” Is his main concern, but Ahk quickly dismisses it.

“Of course not. It’s just one guest, though you and your family are welcome to stay as well. We have more than enough food and space,” Ahk replies with a polite bow and smile. His eyes dart from you to Ahk, questioning in his head whether or not this is a good idea, before slowly nodding. He gestures his words, and again your eldest brother translates it.

“Alright. But if there’s trouble, don’t hesitate to kick Ife out.”

Ahk almost laughs at this - you could never be trouble. Besides the fact that you’re far too polite, he likes you too much to kick you out.

“I don’t think there’ll be an issue. Thank you for letting them stay.”

He turns to you with a giddy smile, almost jumping out of his sandals when your father turns away and you give him a thumbs up. The rest of the afternoon is spent in giving a tour of the city to you and your family, several guards following you to ensure your safety, even with your fathers’ insistence that he’s fine without. Despite the fact that your father and brothers have been to Memphis many times they’re somehow shocked by what they see, and it’s obvious after the third or fourth sight that they’ve never bothered to really _look_ at the architecture or people of the city.

Meeting the Pharaoh marks the end of the day - it’s a momentous occasion for your family, who, including you, bow at the sight of him and treat him professionally. For the Pharaoh, being treated professionally means being treated as god on earth, which is something Ahk doesn’t especially like. Pharaoh doesn’t take much note of the meeting, and adds a cursory ’thank you,’ for the honey your family supplies, leaving an imprinted memory in your fathers mind for years to come. With that, your family departs, leaving you and Ahk to your own entertainment.

“What should we do?” He asks when you reach the palace and, through various methods of avoiding his family, end up in his room. It’s grander than anything you’ve seen, and every item costs more than your life, not that you recognize that - to you, it’s just your friends room.

“I say… we have a little fun.”

“Oh?” He says, raising an eyebrow. “Lead the way, my dear.”


	6. Snafu - ya'aburnee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ya’aburnee (arabic, phr.) - “you bury me”; wishing for a loved one to outlive you because of how unbearable life would be without them. Drabble angst :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work requires SEVERE warning. Do NOT read if you are triggered by the subjects of self harm, self hatred, and suicide. This goes into intricate detail about self harm as well as suicide. You've been warned.

Merriel isn’t the most observant person in the universe, but he isn’t an idiot either. You know this, you base your truth upon it, you pray to whoever listens that he won’t pay attention. For you, the decisions you make and the things you do are the only sane thing. Belt upon skin, beating till it breaks – that’s peace, it’s sincerity, and for once in a hectic life, it’s calm. There’s marks that dot your skin, lining and defining ridges along your arms and hips. He’s caught up in this game you play too well – he couldn’t notice.

Standing beside him, overlooking a city lit bright in the dark of midnight, you wonder what he’d do if he knew. Would he hate you? Many would. Most would think you insane, and maybe you are, but it isn’t for you to say. He keeps you alive, not that he knows that. Him and the rough touch of his fingers against your palm, his breath hot against your ear when you dance with him, chests pressed tightly together. He puts a hand on your waist to guide you, and you almost wince. You manage not to. Quiet violins play from inside, dulled by the glass door separating the balcony from Merriel’s apartment. Plants in more pots than you can count line the balcony, hanging from the ceilings, vines dripping down to the apartment below you. In a sultry voice he whispers, _I’m glad ya came_ , his lips brushing against your temple, lingering for only a moment before he pulls away. Deep into your eyes he stares, caught up in a beauty he knows too well and longs to love better.

You remember when you met him by the ocean, the wind whipping so hard your face blushed red from its’ bite. Despite that you didn’t move, petrified by the ocean’s harsh waves, stuck in the dream of escaping all you knew. He sat beside you then, his legs dangling beside yours off the public dock.

Tonight isn’t like then – no harsh wind, no discomfort, but you still find yourself unsettled. It isn’t him, you know it isn’t, it can’t be him, it has to be you. It has to be you feeling sick with yourself, despising every thought in your head and punishing every word that escapes you. You’ve driven away everyone, everything but him – he’s managed to stay. He finds something within you, some semblance of a person that you can’t recognize within yourself, and somehow that hint of kindness has kept you going.

He shows you the constellations, intertwines your fingers with his in a way only those built for each other can, his words melting like impurity and virtue all at once in your head. The scent of smoke and iron swarms all around you, an intoxication you can hardly bear. It’s not a familiar feeling for you, being unable to handle a form of escape – you’ve taken your fair share of addictions on. Marijuana lessens your anxiety, LSD takes you far away from where you stand, alcohol blocks out everything you hate to feel.

Flirtations aren’t enough to stop it from returning, which he notices every now and then, rarely bringing it up. The topic is an uncomfortable one, no one can deny that.

And you desperately think that maybe, maybe you won’t return to the way things were when you first met him, standing at the dock, ready to fling yourself off the deep end in a mortifyingly literal way. Maybe he can keep you safe, and it feels as though he can when he leads you back inside, brushing your hair out of your eyes and standing too close. He almost kisses you, you can feel it about to happen, the way he leans in, the way his eyes dilate, the fondness for you radiating off every action he takes. When he doesn’t, and the two of you part for the evening, you realize you didn’t feel anything. You didn’t feel a thing when he was far from you, you didn’t feel a thing when he stood so close you could smell the gin on his breath.

 _I don’t know why I’m going against these thoughts,_ you think on the ride home. _I’m not worth the effort of saving._

In the safety of your own home you take scissors to your skin, too scared to use a razor and yearning for more pain than a belt can give. With that, the bathroom door is locked behind you, even though you know your apartment is empty. Crimson stains your toilet lid when you sit down, dizzy from the rush it gives you. The scars already marking your hips remind you that you’re tainted and will always be that way. No one could love that part of you, no one can say you’re worth the time – your decisions in past and present bar you from many aspects of normal life. No swimming, no one night stands, no relationships, no normal clothes shopping, no normal work.

As you lay down on your bed, still clothed, your shoes still strapped to your feet, you stare at the ceiling and think about him. He is the only perfect aspect of you, even if he isn’t truly a part of you. The part of you that loves him is the only part that feels right.

You don’t fall asleep, not until dawn.

It’s not really a conscious decision when you wake up. More than anything it’s automatic, something that should’ve terrified you to your core, but it doesn’t. Maybe the thought has crossed your mind too many times, but when you reach for your pistol you don’t have any raging thoughts. You don’t think about your parents or friends. In fact, you only hesitate when you hear the phone ring – only Merriel knows your new phone number. Curiosity overcomes you, and you leave the gun at your bedside, pick up the phone, and lay it down on your desk, not ready to respond to anything.

“Hey,” he says, his usual softness injured by the static. “You there?”

You remain silent still, resting your head against a couch cushion and staring listlessly at your mostly empty bookcase.

“Uh… I’ve been noticin’ you’ve been actin’ a bit.. off. Jus’ wonderin’ if everythin’s alright. I know I probably sound paranoid or somethin’, but I… can we meet up? In person? I don’ really feel like talkin’ about this over the phone.”

When you still don’t speak, you hear the rustling of clothing before the dial tone. It sparks a suspicion in you, but it isn’t enough to distract you entirely – you lie there for a moment more, bereft of energy, before you drag yourself back into the bedroom, trailing over the bumps and ridges of the pistol.

Everything should be alright. There isn’t anything in your life that adds to misery besides yourself, and therein lies the issue – there is no way to rid of yourself to heal. Only to end.

Two knocks come from your door, beating fear into your veins when you remember you rarely lock your door. There’s little purpose to when you don’t care what happens to yourself. How could he have gotten here so fast? Perhaps you’d dazed out longer than you thought; with shaking hands you reach for your gun, resting your pointer on the trigger, finally feeling something for the first time in what feels like forever.

In your empty apartment, barren of personality and objects, he calls your name. He’s never been here before, and his confusion and alarm is clear in his tone. Sharp footsteps make their way to your bedroom door, which you made sure was shut behind you, and when the handle clicks you hold the gun to your temple. You almost pull it, almost make it – it’s just a millisecond, but the second you see his face you falter. He does too, eyes widening as he sucks in a sharp breath, his steady hands pausing in midair as he reaches for you.

You stand at an impasse, wondering who will make the first move. There’s so much inside him, so much life in his eyes, draining by the second as reality sets itself in his mind.

“Are you fucking stupid?” He growls suddenly, and you realize he’s pulling the gun away from you, ripping it and tossing it across the room. In a swift movement his arms wrap around you, tugging you into his warmth. He rests his face in the crook of your neck, breathing deep as he holds you tight, silently begging for whatever beast that took hold of you to banish itself forever.

“I wanted you to bury me,” you whisper almost sweetly, and though you feel a shiver run through his body, he does not let go.

He doesn’t pull away, not for a long time. A welcome pressure around your shoulder and waist, you allow him to stay as he is, desperate to give you some sort of comfort. When he does release you he rests his hand on your cheek, brushing your hair off your face once more.

“Never do that again. Never even _think_ of doin’ that shit again,” he breathes out, eyes scanning your face for any sign of dishonesty. You nod, tears welling up suddenly, burning their way down your cheeks. “I thought someone broke inta y’ house, god, I didn’t… fuck.”

“I – I’m sorry,” you manage to choke out through sobs, falling to your knees as you wonder how you could fail at something as simple as suicide.

The words weren’t meant for him, though they could be – sorry I hurt myself, sorry you had to see that. But no matter how one looks at the situation, it doesn’t erase the fact you meant _I’m sorry I couldn’t do it in time._

He never learns this. You thank God for that.


	7. Elliot - Pillows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requests: Could you write something with best friend Elliot??? Idk best friend tropes are always a cute concept; 
> 
> Can I get a Elliot x gender neutral so.Were Elliot wants to be held by the the so but they’re playing videogames so he just sits in their lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I combined two requests to make a very fluffy drabble.

The hours pass by slowly, as they always do, locked away in the seemingly endless darkness Elliot kept his home in. You suppose he’s never thought of it as a home – you certainly haven’t, what with the poor decoration and messy floors. Despite all that you still find yourself here every Saturday, watching shitty television and existing in a way that only Elliot could allow.

Besides the static, there isn’t much going on, not that you’d really be able to notice. He smokes weed, you take edibles – generally they kick in pretty quickly, but every now and then Elliot still offers his joint. You never take it. But he’s sitting beside you, his roll burning away without the touch of his lips, eyes staring at the ceiling in a high stupor. There’s a haze that surrounds him, but maybe that’s always been there. That haze pulls you under, touches you soft against your skin, leaving the slightest tingling sensation in your fingers. Maybe that’s why you stick around.

He likes you, he’s said that before, and he’s admitted it’s a rare thing for him to enjoy people’s company. Yet he doesn’t like you in the way you like him; that is, romantically. Unfortunately you have romantic inclinations when it comes to this horribly depressed man, who happens to be the smartest man you know, but you won’t say anything. You don’t want to. You have your own issues to deal with and getting into a relationship would only pile on more, and he knows this too, whether or not he realizes it.

Even with this mild fear of intimacy, you crave touch, warmth in your heart that you rarely ever feel apart from him, but he doesn’t like touch – you can respect that. You didn’t like it when you were younger, and the feeling of relatives forcing you into hugs made you want to puke. So you let yourself understand, let him have his space, but logic doesn’t fill that yearning in your heart, so more often than not you ask him for a pillow. Just to hold as you lie down, a pressure on your chest. Something grounding as your high swoops in.

Elliot says you’re probably his best friend. You say you’re probably his only friend. He laughs, heartless and humoured by your jab at him. You both know you mean no harm, and besides, he does the same to you.

And that’s what your relationship with him is. You’re happy to keep it that way. You don’t need more, can’t need more, as anything more would be overstimulation, for him as well – two terribly sensitive people, two sleepy people, saying nothing between the pauses in your heartbeat.

Just like every other Saturday on his couch, you raise your hands up mutely, staring at the TV, your back pressed into the cushions and your head turned to the bright light. He knows what this motion means, but there’s something off. He makes no noise, so you don’t check to see if he’s handing you a pillow, but after a moment you realize it’s taking about two seconds longer than it usually does. You check rhythm, you hate deviance from it just as he does – everything needs to be done in the proper manner, even if the proper manner isn’t the right way. So you know there’s something off, even if it’s only a two second delay, you know it’s wrong. Something’s wrong with him. There’s been hints throughout the evening, too, moments where his breath is a little too shaky, his fingers fidgeting too harsh with his hoodie. He closes his eyes as though he’ll never see again.

In the span of another two seconds you decide to turn your head and look at him, but when you do it’s not quite what you expected. He does not have the pillow in hand, which you might’ve guessed, but there’s something much more alarming. The rustling of clothes and the pressure on the cushions you lay on should’ve told you, but your high is nearly all-consuming, something you somehow find yourself enjoying. He’s crawling closer to you, keeping close to the ground. His weight presses down near your shoulder, and though you stare at him, he can’t bear to meet your eye. Slowly he draws closer, uneven breath soft against your skin as he lays down, his head a warm weight on your chest.

You swallow thick when he takes that final sigh, melting into your touch. Before you rest your hands on the small of his back, you make sure he knows what you’re about to do, and when he approves you let yourself relax. The two of you begin to breath in unison, a slow rocking that lulls you deep into a sleepy high. Your fingers seem to itch, the nervousness of touching him ever present, no matter your state of mind. But he wraps himself tighter in your hold, and the show suddenly means nothing in light of him.

He rests himself below your chin, close enough that you could kiss the top of his head without trying, but you don’t. Instead you close your eyes, and revel in a moment where nothing really matters. Nothing really ever matters but him.


	8. Ahkmenrah -  jiāoqiǎnyánshēn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jiāoqiǎnyánshēn (chinese, v.) - to have a deep and intimate conversation with a stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUPER fluffy. this was a request and it's kind of humorous. Might be working on a part two.

Rain falls down from the sky in great sheets, battering down at your umbrella so harshly that you have to tuck it away to avoid flying off. Wind whips at your hair, biting at your exposed skin, pushing you to seek some sort of shelter, _any_ shelter, from the fall-winter weather.

Nowhere is open. It has to be around midnight – you can’t be bothered to check your phone, considering the last time you used it it was on 5% battery. The only light you can really see is the one near the train station, and with that singular sliver of hope, you run off in that direction. With the wind at your back, something finally goes right for you.

In the fluorescent light another man sits, skin that you assumed would’ve been dark in any other light paled in the station lights. The dull buzzing you usually hear is gone, beaten out by the rain, pounding harsh against the flimsy rooftop. With shaking hands you sit on the bench, curling up into a ball as though that would keep you warmer.

You won’t deny that New York City has some strange folks – it’s much like that in many other cities, though New York has to be the worst case you’ve seen of it. There was one point where a long line of monks, numbering somewhere into the fifties, walked down the sidewalk chanting some language you couldn’t understand. This one can’t be the strangest occurrence, though it is a little peculiar. His clothes are too nice to be a costume but it can’t be anything else; a man wearing ancient Egyptian garb, donned entirely in gold and bearing a crown that looked far too heavy for his head. He’s standing, carrying a tablet at his side as he stares off into the ink black of the city’s night.

When it begins to hail he looks up at the sky, a calmness in his movement that you hardly ever see. Turning back down to the ground, he steps further inside the safety of the train stop, sitting down on the bench beside you.

“Come here often?” He asks in a humorous tone, a British accent shocking you mildly. With a chuckle and a wide smile, you shake your head, mumbling a small ‘no.’

When he turns to once again stare at the empty railroad tracks, you let yourself examine him, his bone structure, the way his skin rests on his face – all very middle eastern, probably Arabic or Egyptian, or a mix of the two. It’s becoming a bad habit at this point, staring at people’s facial structure. Despite the fact that it’d probably make people uncomfortable if they knew you were doing it, it’s good practice for you, what with your attempts to become a forensic pathologist. He’s pretty, you note that as well – soft skin, sharp jawline, sweet eyes, pink lips – all leading to you blushing and looking away when he notices your stare.

“You’re curious, aren’t you?” He says in a quiet voice, but you can tell he doesn’t mind your intrigue in him.

“Well… yes, but I’m used to not figuring out why people do strange things,” you say, recalling the fifty monks and the one woman wearing only dog leashes as clothes. Your comment earns you a tiny smile from him.

“My name is.. Ahk,” he says, removing his hand from the many folds of his clothes, holding it out for you to shake. You do so, noting nice fingernails and a firm grip.

“I’m (Y/N),” you respond, releasing his hand.

“I’m from the Natural History Museum, here in New York. The Egyptian exhibit,” he says, and for a moment you wonder what the hell he’s talking about, before remembering they created a new exhibit recently. Some sort of attempt to 'bring history to life’ by hiring actors.

“Oh, you’re the actor playing that boy king,” you say in recognition, secretly proud that you remembered that.

“He’s… he’s not really a boy,” he laughs sweet, a wide grin and crinkles around the eye – you can’t help but continue noting how handsome this man is.

“How old is he then?” You ask, scooting closer in a fashion that made sure he wouldn’t recognize what you were doing. This was too good of a chance to lose so suddenly.

“I – um, he died when he was around seventeen,” he stutters out, blushing when you both know that’s still a very young age for a king. “But – but he would’ve… grown up.”

“All of us would’ve grown up. Doesn’t mean that fellow is 4,000 years old now,” you snort.

“Yeah…” he chuckles nervously, “right.”

“Are you interested in Egypt or.. is it more of just a job for you? It seems interesting nonetheless,” you say, leaning in. Stories have always been a staple of your life, the woes people go through and the accomplishments of humanity – everyone has something interesting about them.

“I’m actually from Egypt,” he says, confirming what you’d deduced earlier. “It’s a bit like returning to my childhood. I.. um, I lost my parents at a pretty early age, so it’s a little difficult sometimes, since my job sort of.. reminds me of that part of myself, but um – I, uh, I still enjoy it.”

“I understand. I lost my father recently,” you say in a soft voice, your gaze drifting to the hail covered cement as you recall your father. He’d always been much nicer and closer to you than your mother. “It must be difficult. It’s great that you’ve been able to enjoy yourself, though. When did you leave Egypt?”

“… in my twenties,” he says after blipping out for a moment, which only makes your sentiment for him warmer – maybe you have a thing for airheads. “I left to go to Cambridge.”

“Really? Wow, that’s a nice school,” you say with a sigh, already shuddering just imagining how expensive it had to be. Not even factoring in the fact that University in itself can be expensive, Ahk is Egyptian and had to be a foreign exchange student, which only ups the price.

“Yeah, I had a mildly pleasant time there,” he chuckles, and you laugh as well – you wonder for a moment if you could manage to get his number.

“Here’s another question for you, if you don’t mind my asking,” you say before being promptly interrupted by him.

“Only if I can ask you a question after.”

With a sheepish smile you nod, realizing you’ve been bombarding him with question after question, and leaving him little time to figure out anything about you. He adjusts himself in his seat, and waits patiently for your query.

“Why are you at a train station in the middle of the night wearing your work clothes?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he laughs, but proceeds to answer anyway. “A couple friends and I went out for fun since we weren’t actually working, we, uh, we don’t work on Tuesdays and weekends, but we do rehearsals and such on Tuesdays so it’s… technically work? Anyway, we went out, had some fun, caused several statues to come to life and then we got separated because they got arrested for disturbing the peace, but I managed to escape, ever the lucky one –” you laugh when he says that as though it’s a monumental accomplishment, “but I need to get back to the Museum before dawn.. my clothes, and all that. I don’t have an automobile, so… train.”

“Sounds like a _hell_ of an evening,” you say with a laugh, wondering what other hectic things this man could be up to.

He proceeds to ask you the same question, 'what are you doing at a train station at midnight,’ but it doesn’t process in your head when you realize he said he _caused several statues to come to life_. He had to be joking, but he didn’t mention it, which he definitely should’ve since it’s a very confusing and worrying statement to make.

“(Y/N)? Are you alright?”

“Hm? Oh, sorry,” you rush out, registering he’s been waving his hand in front of your face. He backs away when you finally react, though he continues to look worried, and asks you if you’re alright. “I’m fine, I just.. remembered I haven’t had dinner and I need to plan that when I get home.”

“Oh, that’s not good. Definitely eat something. But, uh, as I was saying…” you perk up again, “what are you doing here?”

“That’s – that’s a funny story, actually. I was off at an art exhibit, or at least I was planning on going to it, and it was a pretty late night one,” you look down at your phone, which is now dead, “it was supposed to go till around 1 AM, not sure what time it is now but – I was, I was stopped at the door because, as it turns out, I had the wrong address. I didn’t know that at the time, though, so I kept insisting I wanted to go inside. I sort of thought they might’ve been discriminating against me but I digress. I finally got inside, turns out I actually _was_ at the wrong place. I’m honestly not sure what kind of party I walked into, but it was.. _really_ odd. Decided to stay because it began to rain, but then somebody started stripping and so did everyone else and I decided it was time to get out, as many people would decide. I left the building incredibly disoriented and a little drunk, got a bit lost, and then the rain picked up and I couldn’t see a thing. Eventually found my way here.”

“That sounds a lot more exciting than my evening,” he says after giving your spiel a moment to set in.

“Yes, well, at least no one got arrested. To my knowledge.”

“Right,” he laughs, looking down at the floor when you meet his eye. As his laughter fades he tucks in his lip, biting and discreetly rolling his tongue over the top lip, making your heart stutter in your chest.

“Hey, do you know where we are? I might be able to drive you back to the museum,” you offer, something you can immediately tell was the right move to make. He sits up a little straighter, a spark of hope in his eye.

“Would you do that? That’d be wonderful, really. I’ll die if I don’t get back in time,” he says with wide eyes, turning to you like you’ve just become best friends. You giggle and nod your head, thinking about the many strange things this man has said, and wondering if he has always been so different from others.

Unfortunately, neither you nor Ahk have much of an idea as to where you are, so you turn to the maps. Two of them sit on either side of the small rest area, illuminated by the pale light and protected behind glass. There’s a marker telling you where you are, and while Ahk is absolutely horrible at reading the map, you manage to pinpoint where you stand.

“It’s a good thing you’re smarter than I am,” he comments as the two of you head off, trying your best to stay out of the hail.

“I don’t think I am. I think I’ve just lived here a while,” you say, ducking beneath the overhang of a building roof. “You start to recognize patterns and such the longer you stare at things.”

“Yes, I’ve…” he looks to you as though you’re suddenly precious, “I’ve noticed. I used to look at the stars quite a bit when I was younger.”

After going through both sopping rain and biting hail, the two of you are exhausted by the time you reach your car. You hadn’t driven it to the function (it would’ve been much easier to find had you done that, but you didn’t) and you hadn’t left it at home either, but you distinctly remembered leaving it in an underground parking lot. The reasons as to your decision to leave it there are unimportant, and Ahk does not ask. Painted an alarming shade of red, your car was a gift from an eccentric aunt, and though it’s tight to fit more than two people in there, the two of you manage.

Throughout the evening you’ve noticed things that are 'off’ about him – the way he tells stories, how he recalls memories, his choice of words, his life in general, but sitting in the car with him has to be the strangest thing that’s happened to you. It doesn’t feel as though he’s ever even been in a car, mesmerized by the blinking lights and the soft radio that comes from the surround sound system you have. So it’s a fact in your mind – there’s something about him that isn’t entirely true, that isn’t wholly normal, and the idea excites you just as much as it terrifies you. Maybe he’s a prince. Maybe he’s a murderer. You don’t know, but he keeps up the happy energy that seems ever present in his company all throughout the ride.

Large lights dug into the ground shine bright onto the front of the museum, showing off the pillars and carvings and, of course, the ever-changing advertisement posters. The hail has lightened back into rain, though it’s still freezing and biting when you walk him up the entrance. Your legs slow in the cold, sore to move and making your whole journey up the many steps just a little more difficult, but Ahk doesn’t seem bothered by it. It’s another thing that strikes you as unusual – he hasn’t complained of the cold, or shown any of its effects at any point. His clothes only add to your confusion, as they’re definitely suited towards warm, Egyptian weather, _not_ hail and sleet.

“I want to thank you again for driving me here. I am indebted to you,” he says with a small bow once the two of you are safe underneath the portico. Inside, all the lights are on, and it looks as though most of the actors inside are still in their costumes.

“It’s not a big deal,” you insist. “I’m happy to help.”

“Still, you’re very kind,” he says, taking your hands in his, a sincere smile on his face.

“I, uh –” you stammer, blushing from the contact. “I enjoyed our conversations. Is… do you, um… is there any way I can, uh, contact you?”

He halts, and for a moment you think you misread the signals – maybe he isn’t as interested in you as you thought, and the idea of that alone puts an anchor in your chest.

“I don’t have any phones,” he says, a sentence that sounds wrong but is technically correct, “but I’m here pretty much every night. I’m very dedicated to my job.” He winks, and you can’t help but smile.

“Then I hope I’ll see you again, Ahk,” you say softly, biting at your lip as your nervousness begins to get at you.

“I hope to see you again as well.”

With that he leaves you starstruck, already dreaming of when you’ll see him again.


	9. Elliot - Meliorism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> meliorism (n.) - the belief that the world gets better; the belief that humans can improve the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy! Very little angst in this one.

As the stars begin to dim, making way for the first rays of sunshine, he looks to you. You aren’t exactly supposed to be here, sleeping beside him, but nothing feels more right than this moment, even if he wishes it didn’t. You’re so unlike him – so sweet, so trusting, he wonders what would happen if someone finally lied to you. Maybe it’s already happened, someone breaking your trust so harshly – maybe you’ve managed to stay the way you’ve always been. Or maybe you’ve changed yourself, forced yourself into a role you don’t fit, and everything he knows of you is nothing but a charade.

 _Stop being paranoid_ , he chides himself, digging his nails into his palm as you intake a deep breath, eyelids fluttering back into sleep. When awake you’re peaceful, but asleep you’re serene, like a secret hideaway where he can be safe, a memory of every happy moment.

He doesn’t remember when he met you. To him, it’s like he never met you at all – like you made an appearance in his conscious, soothing the constant cries and claims of hatred, slowly becoming a real person. It’s probably better this way, having you be a part of him in a way he would never let anyone else. He doesn’t even know why he trusts you. In his life, trust is such a rarity that it wouldn’t be entirely incorrect to say he doesn’t trust anyone. But you, oh, you do something – something beautiful to him, you make him feel like he might be worth something, that he might heal and love.

He’s never told you that, but you picked up on it anyway. You’ve seen his interactions with other people, noticed every quirk when he talks to you, noted every sharp breath and blurred touch. You’re special in that way – noticing things, watching carefully. Why you’ve decided that he’s worth your time is beyond him, but he’s endlessly grateful, not that he’d ever tell you.

A long while ago, somewhere in childhood he began to judge people based on the worst he saw in them. It’s always helped him, always worked to his advantage – people are greedy, people are cold, and people are apathetic – so is he. Yet every time he thinks you’re going to abandon him, every time he believes you will hurt him in some fashion, or hurt others, every chance you have to be a detriment, you don’t. You can’t, you respect him, you understand him somehow despite being normal yourself. It’s uncanny for him to be understood.

“Hey, El,” you mumble, drowsy as your hand comes up to his face, waiting to see if he’ll back away. He doesn’t, and you trace your fingers down his jawline before letting your hand fall back beside your face. “You wanna know something?”

He nods. To be honest he doesn’t really want to, but you have a nice voice, and through some sort of Pavlov you’ve made it so your mere presence relaxes him.

“My mom used to say I was special… ‘cause I help people. But I – um,” you shift slightly in the large jacket you’d brought, “it can hurt, helping people. Have you ever felt like that?”

“… yes,” he murmurs, unable to look away from you. You aren’t looking at him, otherwise he would’ve been staring elsewhere, but you’re staring into space, scratching thoughtlessly at the mattress beneath you.

“It hurts for me cause I don’t… I sort of take on peoples problems.. I worry about them for the other person’s sake,” you say with a sigh, and he watches as your eyes open, staying locked onto his fingers which trill against the wood.

“Are you saying people like me hurt you?” He asks in an almost choked up voice, but he manages to not give his fear away. It does hurt, it hurts but he probably deserves it – that’s what he thinks. If you’re hurting directly because of him, he can’t forgive himself, and though you haven’t yet confirmed or denied him, he’s already berating himself in his head.

“Usually, yes,” you whisper, your hand reaching microscopically closer to his. “You don’t, though… and I don’t know why.”

He has nothing to say, so he stays silent, just watching your even breathing, your blushing cheeks and messy hair. The two of you are polar opposites, you in your nice button downs and neat clothes, him in his hoodie and jeans – you in your limitless faith in humanity, him in his cynical misanthropy.

“Do you think we’ll ever get better?” You mumble, already falling asleep again.

“At what?” He asks.

“Living,” you answer in a breath, your eyes closing before he can reply.

“Maybe,” he still says.

“I think… I’ll get better, with you,” you manage to say, and he wonders how you could get better. You’re fine as is – no, you’re wonderful as you are, he’s the one dragging you down. If you wanted to get better, all you need do is abandon him. He wouldn’t mind, he doesn’t blame you. He wouldn’t like himself if he found himself on the street.

You fall asleep for several minutes, but you stir once more when birds outside the window begin to chirp lightly in the day’s first light.

“Bee?” You say in a hoarse whisper. Every now and then you’ll call him that, and though he’s asked why, he doesn’t understand your answer. You say he’s sweet. He says he isn’t, and you just smile soft and adoring. You’re a hope for something better, something he can strive to love, something he can yearn and treasure. You’re the only hope he has in humanity. You don’t know this.

“Yeah?”

“I like knowing you.”

That’s strange to say, odd to hear, considering even he doesn’t like knowing himself, yet he can’t help but believe you when your touch wraps around his skinny wrist, stroking soft patterns into his sun-starved skin. 

You’re everything good in the world, you’ve become an essential part of him – so maybe, in some convoluted way, he can be a part of that. Maybe he can be a part of everything good in the world.


	10. Kenny - induratize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> induratize (v.) - to amek one's own heart hardened or resistant to someone's please or advances, or to the idea of love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy, humorous, implied male reader.

In your world, there are certain things you don't understand but have to accept. There are things like that in every person's life, but you're a little too caught up in your own, centered around the school you go to and the home you can't bear. Not that there's any specific reason you dislike your home or your parents – just general teenage angst. It's handy to blame your problems on hormones, but there are adults like you too; adults who refuse to love, who can't open their hearts, who grow sick at the thought of loving others. You know it's unhealthy. You know something has to change, because it isn't like you've _never_ felt love before – only that you've decided no one is truly worth the time and heartbreak.

A closeted, homosexual high schooler in 2005 – what a wonderful thing to be, what a wonderful reason to hate yourself. What a wonderful reason to distance yourself from your classmates, what a wonderful excuse to ignore your teachers. But you know the difference between solitude and being anti-social, a line you cross very easily, though you manage to stay on top of your grades and such.

You've got your life figured out, or at least the life you will have to live for the next couple of years. Stay quiet, stay under the radar, don't make friends, don't spill secrets, listen intently, and most of all stay safe. There's only one problem with all of this:

There is an insanely attractive person trying to get your attention.

Not just any attention, either – _romantic_ attention, and you can tell by his quickened heartbeat when you accidentally touch upon his pulse point, his dilated eyes, his mouth parted ever so slightly in awe of you. You're nothing special, you know that, but you're not willing to debate why this boy likes you. The only thing you're willing to do is try and get rid of him.

During lunch times you try to find the oddest, most secluded spot you can so no one can find you. Usually it works well, and every now and then you go off to find a new spot – this time it's inside one of the trees on campus, far off on the other side of the school's massive lawn for football and soccer practice. Sitting underneath it would've been too conspicuous, so you climbed high into it's branches, and began quietly eating.

Nearer to the school building itself, kids swarm around in all different heights and colors, like a massive swath of bees that don't quite belong to the beehive but can't survive anywhere else. It's a stupid analogy you think, but not entirely incorrect. However there's one distant form that grows steadily larger and clearer, and as a sinking feeling develops in your chest, you realize that maybe sitting in a tree isn't as inconspicuous as you originally thought. It's that boy who keeps trying to talk to you, and his hair looks recently cut. He looks a lot better than he did before.

"Hey," he says, a simple start to what you know is going to be a grueling conversation, at least for you. His voice wavers when you meet his eye, something you're sure is an anxious habit.

You don't respond.

"What are you, um, doing up there?"

"Eating," you reply in a muffled voice, talking around a purposefully large bite of sandwich.

"Can I join you?" He asks, much more straightforward than you thought him capable of. In the one class you have with him, he's rather squirrelly, but you admire the courage he's plucked up. So instead of saying no you say nothing, and wait for him to draw his own conclusions. 

It takes him a little while, but he manages to get to where you sit, the thick tree branches easily supporting his weight next to you. As he gets comfortable you note his heavy breathing, and watch with careful eyes as he takes off his coat. He has _muscles_. How did you never notice that before?

He takes a deep sigh and closes his eyes, tilting his head up to the sky. It's then you notice the discoloration along his jawline, a clear bruise against his tawny oak skin, and a cut across his cheekbone. Curiosity overcomes you, and for the first time in a good long while you say the first sentence.

"What happened to you?"

Impersonal enough, you think – it isn't like you asked him if he's alright, though it _is_ sort of implied... when he turns to you with surprise, you can feel regret bubbling in your stomach.

"I, um, got into a fight," he says quietly, scratching sheepishly at the back of his neck. You raise a single eyebrow. He's not the type to get into fights. "Alright, fine," he says. "I.. got beat up, just a little bit. You should see the other guy."

_What a cheesy joke_ , you think, but he smiles gingerly and every thought in your head blips out of existence.

"Oh, my name's Kenny," he says suddenly, holding his hand out for you to shake. He's overly polite, but you know your manners as well, and you take his hand to greet.

"I thought so," you say in reply, recalling the few times his name was hinted at you. "I'm (Y/N)."

"You're in my science class, right?"

"AP Biology, second period, Mrs. Holsten," you say.

"Right. She assigns a lot of homework," he comments thoughtlessly, something you know is a desperate attempt to fill any silence that could appear.

"Sometimes," you agree.

"I just.. it takes me forever, 'cause I usually have to help Larry finish his as well. He's in that class too."

"Who's Larry?" You ask slowly, wanting nothing more than to crawl up into a ball and roll away. This is far too close to 'getting to know someone' than you're comfortable with.

"Oh, sorry, he – he's one of my friends," he says as though he has other friends.

You hum in response, directing your attention back at your lunch. Kenny, however, feels very differently, and makes several more attempts to keep conversation going. For the most part you don't pay attention, catching only snippets of the subjects he's talking about – even though you despise talking with people, you can't deny he has a very nice voice, and you (unfortunately) enjoy listening to him.

"– yeah, but no matter if the rumors are true or not, they're still bad to spread around, you know? Like, there's rumors about me, and –"

"What rumors?" You interrupt him, turning to face him.

"Oh, um... some people think I'm gay," he laughs, and it's a horrible fake laugh, "which of course isn't true."

You're so tempted, so, so tempted to say point blank that you're gay, to ask what's wrong with being gay, but you don't. Thank God.

"Interesting," is what you settle on, staring at him and nodding like you're spacing out which, to be fair, isn't entirely untrue.

Kenny seems kind enough – he's practically spilled his entire life story over the course of the fifteen minutes you've been together, and you have little reason to distrust him. That being said, your distrust of humanity is still rooted deep inside you, and you doubt a single man could demolish that. But looking at him, watching the way he bites subconsciously at his lips, the way his eyelids flutter open and closed and the long lashes that line his grey eyes – you want to toy with this boy. It's probably just your gay thoughts irritating you again, but God he looks like a good target, and he's just so damn pretty.

So you give in.

"Has anyone told you yet that you're pretty?" You ask, pretending it's a normal and casual thing to ask. As expected, Kenny flusters and stammers, falling over his words as he tries to string together a coherent sentence.

"I, uh – I'm not, I uh.. I don't think I – not.. um, there's not – I mean –"

You decide to spare him from further embarrassment, which he greatly appreciates (even if he doesn't say anything).

"I'm assuming that's a no, then," you say, to which he quickly agrees with a nod of his head. "That's a shame. I hope that changes."

Your saving grace – the bell rings from across the large field, and tucking away your containers into your too-large pockets, you hop easily down the tree, followed by a much more nervous Kenny. Reaching your hands up to him, you help him down the last branch, landing him safely on his feet.

"There you are," you mutter as he brushes himself off. "Any scratches?"

"I, um, don't think so," he says quietly, his breath halting when you brush a hand down his chest, ridding his shirt of a couple of bits of bark.

"Get some ice on that cut and bruise," you say, patting his shoulder and turning to leave.

After a moment you can hear his footsteps chasing after you, and it isn't long at all till the two of you are walking together, on your way to your separate classes.

"A lot of people think you're rude," he says out of nowhere. You shrug.

"That's on them," you chuckle, and he easily agrees.

"I think you're kinda nice."

"... thanks."

It's the first time anyone your age has complimented you. Maybe talking to people isn't as horrible as you thought.


	11. Snafu - mono no aware

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mono no aware (japanese, n.) - the gentle wistfulness at the transience of things, and the awareness of the sadness of existence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not necessarily fluffy or angsty. Just is.

He does this every now and then, when it rains – steps aside and lets the world spin without him, letting time wile away in its' never ceasing torrent. Like the great sheets of rain that fall from the sky he keeps himself still, staring out the window in a hundred mile gaze you loathe to break. He just sits with half lidded eyes, comfortable on the cushions laid out beside the window, staring without thought. You like to cook during these times, but only because he said he enjoys it. The smell of half baked cookies and the bubbling of warm tomato sauce, the drifting steam of soup and the heavy garlic and oil in fried vegetables. He loves that, or he says he does, but it's hard to believe he enjoys it more than he would enjoy pure silence and the accompanying scent of petrichor. It's like he's reached heaven, one made only for him, one you can't join but are happy to observe.

From the window of your apartment high off the ground you can see each rain drop casting reflections of the dull, white sky and the golden lamps you keep beside the couch in the living room. Every now and then he shifts, moving into more comfortable positions, but his eye never strays – not to you, not to the cat, not to the passing cars. He remains as he is for a single point in time, satisfied with his thoughts, content with a life he barely stands to live in. The streets are quiet, at least quieter than usual in the city. A low rumble passes by you but you hardly notice, staring at him staring at the sky, watching the leaves of the trees flutter and drip in the downpour.

Resting your cheek on your hand, you sigh, wondering what goes through his head in times like this. Probably nothing, but he doesn't talk about it. You don't bother to ask. It seems a too-personal question for you to ask – despite your own leanings your relationship is nothing more than platonic. At least that's what you say to other people; there are glimpses, moments in time where the world seems to stop at his whim, where your touch electrifies his skin and there's more sincerity in your silence than there is in every truth you could name.

The distant reaches of the city are clouded in low hanging fog that allows the background to dissipate into nothing. All the world is a haze, all the world is a song no one but him can hear, and for a beautiful moment that's alright.

You can smell the bread baking in the oven, hear the pasta water boiling and the tomato sauce bubbling quietly, and you know you need to return to fixing up dinner.

But you're stuck.

There's no emotion behind his eyes, no peace or chaos. Only simplicity, simply being alive for the sake of it, the recognition that nothing matters and maybe that's okay. Maybe nothing needs to matter, but he does. He means more than any dusty instrument or flowery drink – every sunset beach and empty boulevards, every broken down elevator and every ancient home that pleads for someone to love it till the pieces die away.

You look outside. It's still raining. He's still watching it, the cold grey of the sky reflecting in green eyes, dancing along his nose and cheeks. The window fogs from his breath, unnoticeable by any but you, imagining every beat of his heart may be yours. Curls ever present in his black hair rest soft upon his forehead, paired with freckles that remind you no one is anything but human.

_How do you exist in a moment where nothing else lives?_

_How can you know a time when no one moves, no one breathes?_

Pools of water are forming on the streets, and as a car drives by it splashes up onto the sidewalk, drenching the newspaper box outside your building. You attend to the food, pulling the crisp bread out of the oven and turning the sauce to a boil. Before putting the pasta into the water you turn to him once more, unsurprised to find he hasn't moved, and with that you finish up the dinner preparations.

As the rain begins to slow you take a few steps closer – you can't tell if he notices or not, but if he does he shows little aversion. You sit across from him in the window seat, moving gingerly over the pillows and blankets piled there and doing your best not to disturb him. He breaks his concentration to look to you, the only one who could break it, the only one he lets drag his mind away from fruitless thoughts, and he thinks _nothing matters and maybe that's okay. Maybe nothing needs to matter, but you do._

You matter, more than the stars on the clearest night, more than the grass at his feet and the gun in his hands when he walked through that island forest, more than every sorrow and every accomplishment.

In silence you sit together, intertwined without touching, the slightest graces reminding each other that life isn't easy but it's worth it. _It's worth it with you_ , he thinks, and though you never tell him, you think the same thing of him.

_Maybe life doesn’t mean anything, but that’s okay._


	12. Merriel Shelton - rantipole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rantipole (v.) - to be wild and reckless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly don't know if this is fluffy or angsty. yall just make out i wanted to write some drunk make out and this happened

You know him well – too well, maybe. Your mother said that about two years into your friendship, claiming you 'needed other friends,' which you never actually got despite her insistence. Watching him grow with you and never counting the days, wasting away your youth in all the best ways possible, it was hard to want more than that. Him and his long eyelashes, the dusting of the freckles across his cheekbones. That was special. That was _yours_. He was special. You were his; sometimes you wondered if he in his entirety belonged to you. Would you even deserve it if you did?

Unlike you, he had lots of friends. Not that he was very close with any of them; according to you, there were two very distinctive sides of him, and a third that was false. The third was the way you met him, acting a polite little Christian boy in front of his parents – you'd thought him so sweet and innocent. Then he opened his mouth and the bitter scent of alcohol scented filthy words that would taint Lucifer himself. That was the second side of him, the one he used in front of his classmates, the one the general world knew, the one that every girl fell for, the one every boy yearned to both hate and love. It took a long while before you discovered his first side, though, and it was one you were happy to never share. Thoughtful, with every remembered fact and logged memory that made up the image of you that he knew. He remembered the way you took your coffee, not that he put it to use very often, and he remembered your siblings and your pets, your favorite color and each joke you couldn't help but laugh at. It was sweet. He was sweet, but you'd never tell him that.

For the longest time you had no idea as to why he bothered to spend time with you. He had other people much more interesting, and your mother wondered the same thing – she knew of his reputation around school. The question dissipated after a few years, vanishing as fast as it had come. Some things simply were that way, and it just so happened he was built for you as you were built for him, matching for the sake of matching. Nothing else seemed important, certainly not your massive crush on him that started around the age of 15.

The two of you were rather different. It was probably why your mother was ever so dubious about your friendship, which, in hindsight looking back at your childhood, was a valid query. You were silent. You never raised your hand in class and your comments to the general populace consisted mainly of 'excuse me,' 'thank you,' and 'sorry.' He was sultry, outspoken at the worst of times and coy at the best, which you adored about him. Like a show only you two could ever know, you pretended around others, put up false personalities and never minded the comments on your stark friendship.

It was sometime in later high school years that he started drinking heavily. This fact isn't worth mentioning for any horrible reason; he did not become violent, he did not use harsh words, he did not change as a person. He did, however, most definitely become a frequent user, and while this fact by itself means very little it marks the point where, from your point of view, your relationship pulled a whole 180.

You could clearly remember the first time he got drunk in front of you, for better or worse (though, with your mental health in question, probably for worse). A school dance where some freshman laced the juice bowl with cheap, strong alcohol they'd gotten from their parents. The teachers never found out who it was, only that it had to be a freshman, which you and Merriel found hilarious. At the time, however, he fully indulged himself, swinging haphazardly from the metal drain pipes while you watched in unaltered silence. He'd sung, something you couldn't understand or bother yourself with attempting to recognize, and continued to do so for the next ten minutes. The second you tried to help him, reach your hand out to stop his dizzying swinging, your touch shocked him into some sick form of sobriety.

His hand wrapped around your wrist, tighter than he'd ever held you and pulled you far away from the drainpipes out back of the school. Trampling muddy feet through the hallways he led you to the janitors closet – a place the two of you frequented when up to mischief – pushed you inside, followed you, locked the door behind the two of you, and with that the light went out. You felt your back hit the wall behind you with little grace, a firm hand on your shoulder pushing you into it and forcing you to stay. Then his breath, hot and harsh against your skin, brushed up your neck, stopping right below your ear where he proceeded to bite at you, drawing the slightest amount of blood as you yelped quietly. His lips met yours and in an instant your heart burnt to ash, your mind running with a million thoughts and your body forcing a thousand actions out of you. You'd never done that before, never been touched like that, certainly not in such a passionate fashion as his. Desperate to feel your heat his hands ran up your shirt, grasping tight around your bare waist and pulling you closer.

That was six years ago. From that night onwards he never stopped, and the situation mutated into something you never saw happening at any point in your life. At least twice a week he would invite you to a night out (you always said yes), and usually in one of those evenings he would drink to blackout, pull you into a closet, and kiss you fiercer than any of your partners ever would.

Tonight is one of those nights. It hasn't happened yet but you can already see it on the horizon, growing closer with each shot he took, competing against a heavy-set man wearing a leather biker's vest. You sat at the bar, watching them sit across from each other and down their drinks. Fortunately for the both of you, the biker-man's friend decided to fund the expedition, which made Merriel lose what little self restraint he had.

After the tenth-or-so shot they're fully inebriated (it didn't really help that he'd had two beers before this), swaying in their seats as you just laugh, watching as they attempt to force down another. Five more and the biker passes out, Merriel shouting out his victory in a slurred voice. Around him the audience cheers, patting him on the back as he tries to stand, making the short way back to you.

"Impressed?" He asks, his tongue heavy in his mouth. You chuckle, shaking your head – he's taken more and been fine, not that he should've.

"Yes. Terribly impressed," is what you say instead. He grins wide, the expression melting as his gaze lingers on you, _on your lips_ , as he bites at his lower lip and his eyes glaze over.

Reaching towards you his fingers wrap around your wrist, something you've grown to know as familiar, something that makes you both sick and excited. He pulls you off your stool, dragging you through the disordered crowd towards the back door of the bar. In an instant the cold air hits you, distant jazz music echoing in the empty alley filled with trash and mysterious fluids. Curling his fingers tighter around you he pushes you up against the brick wall, pressing his chest right against yours till the scent of his intoxication fills your head, dizzying your thoughts till his lips meld with yours. He's soft, he's always been soft but his actions say otherwise. He grips at your hair, tugging and biting at your lip, practically grinding into you as soft pants fall between you.

"God, I love you," he mutters, the words kissing themselves into you, shocking you into stillness.

"What?" You breath out, trying to stop his frantic hands searching your body. It's the first time he's said that.

"I want you to be mine, entirely," he admits, just barely leaving your space to say the words before he attempts to lean in again, which you respond to with pushing him away. Your mind is melting, and now not just at his touch – he's _never_ said anything even remotely like that, not in any drunken make-out session he's initiated or in any holy, quiet space. He's not that kind of person, he doesn't say things like that.

"You're drunk," you say at last as he stares into your eyes. You should've said that sooner, six years sooner, but you were wrapped up in the secrecy, the pleasure. You should've said something sooner.

"Then remind me in the mornin'," he mumbles, his accent growing thicker as he pulls you closer by the waist. You acquiesce, letting gentle kisses patter against your jawline and neck, against your lips and your temple. As your eyelids flutter shut from his touch, the evening dissipates into nothing as it always does.

In the morning, you wake up first, your hair a mess when you rise from your untidy bed. A glance to the side and half the sheets are off the bed, Merriel snoring on the floor with his limbs splayed out. Trying to keep your laugh quiet, you leave the room on tip toe, shutting the door behind you as you go to make breakfast. When he wakes up he sits at the table and you say nothing. He doesn't need to know what you heard last night, and you don't need confusion and chaos in your life.

Four days later he invites you to a party that his coworker is hosting at some sort of bar, a much nicer one than the last time he promises. Unfortunately, he alerts you of this occasion about an hour before it's supposed to start, making you rush through your clothing choices and styling. Halfway through finishing your hair he grabs your hand, tugging you out of the bathroom and rushing you outside where you grab a taxi in the rain.

"You can't just tell me when things are happening an hour before they're happening," you say in the car, fidgeting in your clothes and anxiously checking your hair in the rear view mirror.

"T' be fair, I didn't know it was happening. I jus' got a call from him," he explains with a shrug, feeling a whole lot more nonchalant than you felt, your hand clutched on your wallet.

Blue lights shine onto the wet pavement, bright lines striking against the rain as you open the car door, stepping outside. Merriel puts his hand on the small of your back, rushing you inside to avoid the rain. Once inside the touch ceases, not that you really notice – that's something he often does. The bar sat in the left corner of the large room, the blue tiles of the counter spanning a good amount of space, sitting opposite of the raised platform where a jazz band plays. In the hazy smoke from the many lit cigarettes you could see the dim blue lights, shadowing your skin and obscuring the specifics of everyone's faces.

"How could Pat afford a band?" You ask in a whisper, leaning in so only Merriel could hear you.

"I dunno, I don't think this is his joint, if y' know what I mean," he says, not turning to you, his eye caught on some girl ordering a Shirley temple at the bar.

"Go have fun," you say with a small chuckle, pushing him forward. He stumbles slightly but takes the steps toward her, and from there you look away, trying to interest yourself in the bass line of the melody swirling in the smoke.

For the most part you don't drink alcohol. If you ever got drunk with Merriel around you knew how it would turn out – you knew you'd wake up with regret, probably with him naked in your bed because for some reason when he's drunk he can't get enough of you. There was only one time you got drunk, and that was alone at home in high school, and the entire time you couldn't stop thinking about him. His mannerisms, the short and quick movements of his fingers when he's anxious, the way he sucks in a breath whenever he's in awe. At the time you couldn't get it out of your head, and now watching him flirt with the Shirley temple girl you find yourself so much like you were in high school. When his fingers drag over her face, pushing her black hair out of her face you almost break the coaster you'd been fiddling with. You promptly look away again.

Over the course of the night several people ask you to dance, the music picking up as the lights grow into a dizzying intensity, but you decline each time. Instead you just watch, you watch Merriel drift from girl to girl. His belt is tight around his hips, showing off his thin waist with the button down that bundles around his chest and arms, the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows. What started as neat, trimmed hair becomes messy and unkempt throughout his avid dancing. You're content to watch, or that's what you tell yourself – either way you remain unmoved from your seat, the pop in your hands fizzing away as it looses its cold. You don't bother to keep track of how many drinks Merriel has had either, since you can already tell from the way he sways on his feet and the slur in his accent.

Somewhere around midnight he approaches you, sitting in the chair beside yours. Resting his chin on his palm, he stares at you, absorbing your entirety, or something like that; it's a little hard to tell when his stare is discomforting. He's got wide eyes that look like he's gone into shell shock sometimes, an intensity you can very rarely stand. You certainly can't stand it this time, so you look back out into the crowd, pretending you can't feel him burning holes into your face.

"(Y/N)," he says, and you turn to him. After that he says nothing, just reaching for you, fingers brushing against your cheek just like how he brushed the hair away from the Shirley temple girl.

"You alright?" You ask in full awareness that no, he's not alright.

In full view of the crowd he leans in, kissing you before you could even process that he'd grown closer, moving soft and tender against you, yearning for your touch against his. You want to pull away, you feel sick when you think about how anyone could see, but your body thinks otherwise. Reaching for him you can feel your fingers wrapping around his wrist, feeling his pulse rushing against yours. He pulls you closer. You don't know how to say no when all you can do is love him better.

"People can see us," you finally say in a quiet voice, barely able to say the words before his lips meet yours once more.

"Why the hell do you care?"

"I dunno, I just thought..." he pulls away, never breaking eye contact as he leans back in his seat. "I thought you'd mind."

Usually when he drunk-kisses you he does it in private.

"I don't care if the world knows I love you," he says, the second time he's said that, and you're still in shock from the first time he said it so your stupor only grows worse. As you try to process his words he leans in again, his hand coming to the back of your head and forcing you closer, closer still, like you give him purpose, like a moment without you is a moment unworthy of living remembrance.

"You're drunk," you say in a stumble, unsure of what else to say.

"Then remind me in the mornin'," he replies in a murmur. It's exactly what he said last time, and just like last time his hand moves to your waist and pulls you into his world of electrifying touch.

You say nothing in the morning.

This becomes the new routine – get drunk, confess your love, get 'rejected,' and forget in the morning. It repeats over and over again till you almost grow sick of it. He can't say anything when he's sober, and you don't trust that, so you never remind him and he never brings it up. You don't even know if he remembers. He probably doesn't, considering he never acts as though anything has changed, but you know he's smart. He bides his time, he's witty, and he's cunning – if he has something planned he's made sure you know nothing. It's a trait you admire and abhor.

Maybe one day you'll tell him. You'll tell him how you love his voice, the way he mumbles his words and the intensity he carries constantly, how he dresses and the way he walks. He'll know you adore him for everything he is, and yeah – he probably won't believe you. He'll probably say 'I don't deserve this.' He'll treat you like you're precious, like you're fragile and any false move will break your trust and ruin your relationship.

Maybe one day, you keep telling yourself, watching him dance with other people. Maybe one day he'll know you're his, that you've been his the entire time, that he never needed to lie or try so hard, that you simply liked him for who he is.

Who knows.


	13. Merriel Shelton - Between and Against

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request: hey can u do a snafu x reader where she’s a marine corps engineer stationed with him and he’s likes her and hits on her but she always rejects him and when new recruits flirt with her he scares them away bc she’s “his girl” and like fluffy at the end? i know the engineer thing is weird but i’m an engineering student so... yeah. thanks and i love ur work! also i know i typed “she” but it can be gender neutral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is pretty similar to 'trouble wont let you forget' but anyway here it is

You'd bet good money that out of all the soldiers on this godforsaken island, you'd been here the longest. There was hardly any question about it – you set up the original tents. You built the bridges, you set the trenches, you planted the landmines, and that made you an original. It was high time for you to be sent home, but the order never came, and all you could do is keep working.

The perks of being here since the beginning numbered few, but the one that gained you the most attention was the fact that you knew everybody. Every single person here had personally come up and had a conversation with you, filled to the brim with questions, wondering of how life worked and what _exactly_ they'd be doing. Oftentimes people would come up and ask about other people – it was one of those ways people tried to know someone without actually talking to the other person, and you were happy to oblige. From this dependency on your library of knowledge, a deep-rooted respect had grown for you in the encampment, a respect that very few people dared to break.

There was a man who, like you, had yet to be sent home, and had been on the island for a good amount of time. Not as long as you of course, but a fairly long while. You didn't get on particularly well with him, which was unfortunate, considering it was likely neither of you were going to be sent home anytime soon. It wasn't that you wholly disliked him, either – it was more that he didn't like you. He never trusted you with anything. You'd get orders to build something, to scout out a new area, something like that and he _always_ insisted on joining you, spouting bullshit about how you couldn't do it yourself, despite the fact that you've done this far more and for much longer than he has.

"Every single order for the past month, every one of them you've sent me on that _dickhead_ -"

"Don't get snarky, Corporal," your CO interrupts you, his arms crossed as he sits leisurely behind his large, wooden desk, looking like he thinks he knows everything.

"You have to see my side of this, though," you plead, practically ready to get on your knees and beg.

"He don't have ta' see anythin', jus' that ya can't be left alone," Snafu, that asshole, that _fuckface_ , drawled, a mocking laugh leaving him. You didn't bother to glare at him – it never worked.

"It's better for your own safety anyway," your CO says, a technically valid point, but your distaste for Snafu had grown that validity didn't matter. "Can't carry a gun in your arms if you're settin' out trenches."

With your fists curled so tightly that your nails almost dug through your skin and into your blood, you turned and left, seething with annoyance. Snafu followed after, walking by your side with that trademark smirk that did nothing but make you want to punch his face. You wouldn't, of course. Probably.

"Let's get this over with," you grumble, grabbing pikes out of one of the large, wooden crates sat beside your CO's tent. Stuffing them into your bag you turn, stumbling backwards when you find Snafu directly in front of you, close enough for your chests to be touching. Now greatly unsettled you circle around him, watching him the entire time to make sure he wasn't going to try anything.

You make your way through the camp, avoiding the larger crowds before finding yourself (and Snafu) in the wilds of the forest. Looking to your left you find bare ground, rich with fallen leaves and crumbles of dirt and mud, and to your right you see the already-dug trenches filled with puddles and forgotten trinkets. Pulling out one of the pikes you set it into the ground, stabilizing it just enough so you could stomp your foot on it, digging the marker deep into the earth. Snafu doesn't help – no, all he does is watch you sweat in the humidity caught beneath the canopy of trees, with his gun slung over his shirtless back and his boots pressing large footprints into the ground.

About halfway through you begin to have difficulty, which is fortunately something you expected. Thirst gets the better of you with your empty flask, but you don't dare ask Snafu for help, as you know exactly what his response would be. Something about how helpless you are, how you need him – something that both demeans and makes fun of you. You bite into the inside of your cheek in hopes of the preemptive anger dissipating. Instead of saying anything at all, you set another pike in the ground, practically pile driving it with the heel of your own boot.

"Lookin' pretty sweaty there," he says in that soft voice, that wonderfully soft voice that you would've adored, had you not understood the words he was saying.

"Cause you're such a prize? Look at yourself. You're sweatier and fuckin' filtheir than me too," you grit out, digging into the earth with your bare hands until you finally pull out the large rock in the way of your plans.

"No need ta get angry, doll," he laughs, pulling a cig out of his pocket and lighting it. With the obstruction his words are even harder to understand, slurred and blurry, and you already have enough issues with the left side of your face, what with the eye injury and the bomb damage. "Want one?" He says as he offers a cigarette to you.

"No," you mumble. "That shit'll kill you."

Considering the amount of times he's called you doll, one would assume you know what the nickname means. You don't. Most people call you Foxeye, and Snafu calls most people by their usual nicknames, but not you. Nope, he has to make your life harder in every aspect, so of course that means giving you a new, separate name that you have to respond to. Even the way he speaks that name is demeaning – like you're something precious. Like you'll break.

"Why don't you make yourself useful and actually help me for once?" You ask when your trail begins to circle back to camp, pounding another pike into the ground.

"Nah... I like t' watch ya sweat," he says with an obnoxious grin.

"I can't wait till you go home," you grumble.

"Me too, doll."

+

To your dismay, neither you nor Snafu are sent home before the next installment of men comes in. You're sitting on the beach, trying to draw one of the crabs scuttering about on the sand when you spot the massive boat, first only a grey speck on the distant horizon. Over time it grows closer, and by midday you can tell for certain it's a boat with a new installment. By the afternoon it docks near the bridges you helped to build, and the men come out. Each of them have fresh haircuts, with clean-shaven chins and bright eyes. It isn't the hair or the happy eyes that sets them clearly apart from the others, though – the major difference between you and them is that they're clean. You can see the actual color of their skin, and their clothes are neatly pressed.

From your spot on the beach you admire them. Love for men is not something you share with many people. Actually, you don't share it with anyone, as any mention of it would seriously damage both your reputation and your relationship with your CO and the various companies gathered here. Still you watch in silence, heart racing when a brunet with a sharp jawline and dark eyes meets your gaze and smiles. He smiles at you, and instantly you can feel blush fill your cheeks. Nothing will come of it, you know that, but it's a pleasant feeling that has you upbeat the rest of the day.

Several days later you happen to have an actual conversation with the man, but it's nothing more special than what people usually talk to you about. The sun overhead burns warmth into your skin, and as you stretch out in the back of one of the trucks, your eyes close. Heat is generally despised around here mostly because it's _always_ hot, but every now and then it can be pleasant. This is one of those times, where a quiet happiness bubbles in your stomach. One of the men the handsome stranger is walking with notices you, mumbling something you can't quite hear, but the group approaches you. When one of them clears his throat you pop open your one good eye, sitting up when you notice all of them looking at you.

"You're Foxeye?" One of them asks with a furrowed brow.

"What gave it away?" You say with a pleasant yet distant smile. Reaching for your hip you pull out your flask, unscrewing it and taking a long sip, one you know shows off your own jawline and your permanently bloodshot left eye.

"You've got quite the name around here," the handsome one from before says, leaning against the truck in a positively tantalizing way. You're good at not letting it show, so you just shrug, turning to him with a soft grin that manages to make his cheeks turn a pretty pink.

"Seems like you know me already. What are your names?" You ask, doing a quick survey of the group before turning back to the handsome stranger.

"I'm Mark. Lester," he says, offering his hand for you to shake, which you gladly accept.

The others introduce themselves after him, and although you try to remember everyone's names, the introduction is cut short by _that_ guy. Snafu worms his way through the crowd, pushing anyone who tries to stop him out of the way. You try to ask him what the hell he's doing this time, but before you can say anything at all, he grabs your wrist and pulls you down from the truck bed, pulling you out and away from the group of new soldiers. Trying to yank yourself out of his grasp you pull, scratching at his fist and groaning with the effort.

"What the hell are you doing!?" You finally ask when the group is in the distance. Only there does he release you, turning round to face you with almost... _angered_ eyes. Why would he be angry with you?

"I ain't doin' this for myself," he tells you, gritting the words out. "Captain wants t' speak with ya."

"Oh," you mumble. "You could've just told me, instead of fucking – it looked like you were gonna kill me."

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't even smile, and he certainly doesn't carry his usual lax body language, something that does its' job of unsettling you. All he does is turn and leave, leaving you alone in front of your CO's tent. All you want is for him to like you, but no, he has to refuse, and further than that he has to be an asshole about it. Slow with shock you open up the door, entering the tent to find it empty, many of the classified documents scattered about his desk. It doesn't interest you greatly – most people are already willing to tell you their secrets, considering how well you keep them, but what does interest you is what you see past the mesh of your CO's tent.

Snafu's talking to Mark. Neither of them look particularly happy, but you couldn't imagine any situation where they'd get on anyway, what with their massive personality differences, but this isn't normal. They're _pissed_. Snafu doesn't get incredibly angry, but now he looks outraged. You're too far away to hear what they're saying, but soon their words turn to yelling, and you can do nothing but stand there and watch as other men start getting involved. One group is trying to calm Snafu down and the other is trying to reason with Mark, and as they yell louder you can just barely make out their words.

"You're a fuckin' pussy, Marky!" Snafu yells, kicking his legs into the air as two men grab underneath his arms, lifting him up and trying to carry him away.

"I'd rather be that than an asshole as fucked up as you," Mark says, spitting at the ground.

His actions do nothing more than rile Snafu up further, till he's writhing in his friend's grasps, pushing and pulling so harsh that he falls to the ground and starts in a dead sprint towards Mark. Mark is fittingly terrified by this, backing up into the large gathering of men behind him, but it's not enough. He ends up falling back into them as Snafu practically launches himself at the man, landing on a pile of bodies that quickly squirm out of the way as Snafu pounds his fist into Mark's face.

"You fuckin' touch 'em, even _look_ at 'em ever again I'll give you a real beating," Snafu says when he stands, leaving Mark in a daze from his fist. To finish it off Snafu lands a harsh kick to his chest, dramatized by the heavy fall of his boot, drawing a harsh cough and breath from Mark.

It's only when the crowd disperses that you realize your mouth has been hanging open, quickly rectifying that with a quiet embarrassment. In a reflex you pull your flask from your hip, opening and taking a long swallow from it. Part of you wants to go help Mark, another part wants to go yell at Snafu, but the part that wins over is your curiosity. You don't want to ask Mark what happened, and you don't want to ask Snafu either – Mark may be handsome, but you don't know enough about him to trust he'll give an accurate description of events. Snafu likes to make your life a living hell, so you can't depend on him for truth either, leaving you with one choice.

Wandering around the camp you find a group of men smoking together in general silence, a group neither Mark nor Snafu is in. There you stop, not bothering to ask if you can sit down with them before you do so. Again, you're well known – no one besides Snafu has any issues with you. So you ask them.

"What the hell were they fighting about?" You ask amidst the quiet, knowing they would all know who you were talking about. One of them looks up at you, a pipe hanging out of his mouth, and a single eyebrow quirked.

"Are you being serious?" He asks you as the others pointedly ignore your conversation.

"... yes?" You say, feeling less sure of yourself the more he stares at you.

"Just go ask Snaf. He'll tell you better," he says, and after that he returns back to his magazine. A small sigh leaves you as you stand, brushing off your already dirty clothes.

Every part of you screamed that Snafu wouldn't tell you the truth, so you leave it at that. You're happy to stay in the dark as long as it means you avoid having another excruciating conversation with that man. You’re done trying to win his favor. For the next several days you even do your best to avoid him, ducking out of the mess tent when he enters and walking the other direction when you see him down the path. In fact, you do such a good job of it, that you only talk to him again when you're setting up the rest of the trenches. Once more he's managed to convince your CO to send both of you on to chart out the remaining trenches, even though the job is rarely dangerous, and you did it fine before he ever even came to the island.

Once more you find yourself ignoring his incoherent ramblings, drinking a long swig from your flask before letting out a sigh, driving another pike into the ground. Sometimes you can barely even hear him – this is one of those times, and these times make it easier for you to do your job. If you cared about Snafu you might've made an effort to understand him, but you don't care about him. At all. He could choke on his dinner and you wouldn't raise your head.

"I've got a question for you," you grunt out, knelt beside a pike that just won't go in. There you begin to dig at the earth with your hands, trying to find the hard ground or the rock stopping it.

"Go ahead, doll," he says when you pause in concentration.

"Jesus –" you mumble beneath your breath, your annoyance spiking at the nickname. "Saw you and that new recruit duking it out. What was that about? No one's willin' to tell me."

He went silent.

Snafu _never_ goes silent, especially when the subject of a fight he won is brought up. Even when you move onto the next pike he doesn't speak, so you turn to him, sitting down in the dirt and looking up at him.

"What? I say something wrong?"

He still doesn't say anything, but he drops to his knees, almost right between your legs as you looks to you with a reverence so deep and pure you think you're imagining it. But you blink, and he's still there, one hand wrapped around your ankle and the other right beneath your raised thigh. Your breath catches in your throat, but from what you can't tell – is it surprise? Horror? Intrigue? All you can feel is the way his bare skin moves against your clothed legs, clouding out all thought of your racing heart.

"Y' ever hate someone?" He asks in the softest voice you've heard him use. Words fail you, so you nod, thinking only of him. "Is it me? I don’t blame you."

Well, you don't _hate_ hate him – it was more of a he hated you, so you hated him in return situation. Nonetheless you nodded, curious to see where this was going.

He surges forward, and in one fluid motion he's kissing you, pressing you up against the bark of the tree behind you. Your immediate reaction is to try and crawl backwards, try to get away from him, but you're stopped by the tree, and he uses it to his advantage. The hand around your ankle moves, coming up to your head and tangling in your hair. There he pulls, drawing the smallest whine – _not_ a moan, you won't let it be a moan – from your unwilling mouth. He presses himself impossibly close to you, till you're chest to chest, his hips practically grinding into yours. The way his lips move – soft against your own, needy and full of an ardor you didn't know could exist, especially not within him, but it's there. God, it's there, it's all you can feel as he nips at your lip, soothing the burn he leaves with his tongue. In that tiny motion, that semblance of caring you melt. Only then do you return his kiss, letting him pull at your hair, letting him have this control that is so rare to find in such a place as this.

"I told him you were mine," he mumbles when he pulls away, his breath warm against your cheek as he moves to whisper in your ear, all the way leaving tiny kisses. "Fucker thought I was lyin'. You're _mine_."

"Yeah," you breathe out, regaining control of your limbs just soon enough to hold his cheek in your palm, drawing him back to you and pulling him into a kiss _you_ control. "I - I thought you hated me."

"Nah," he says, chuckling against your lips. "Jus' lookin' out for ya."

Now _that_ was a surprise – and for once, it’s one you like.


	14. Ahkmenrah – Practical Magicians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request:  
> hey it's me again :) can i request an ahk x reader where y/n is a programmer and is showing him all the things she can do with a computer and him just being super amazed at her skills and the progress of technology in general? please feel free to add stuff i'm not super imaginative. i love your writing and thanks again!

"You're really good at this," Ahk said, leaning over your shoulder to look at the computer screen. The brightness and the many pixels of the screen hurt your eyes, considering you were used to computers that _weren't_ made in the 90's, but you could make do. Computers were the one thing that you knew your way around, no matter the type.

"Ahk, I'm just showing you how to google something," you said as you tried to hold back a laugh, turning to him only to almost kiss his cheek. You quickly turned right back to the screen.

"Is it something people do often?"

"Google stuff? Yeah. The internet has answers to almost any question, as long as someone on the earth knows the answer, it's usually on the internet," you said in hopes of him understanding. "The internet is... like a connection, sort of. Every computer can connect to one another, so I could talk to someone on the other side of the world, and I can go into a non-physical library of information. It's not just used for knowledge, though. Lots of other things too."

He pulled one of the rolling chairs from its' place at the reception desk, rolling it beside yours and sitting next to you, his thigh pressed against yours as he stared at the screen. You bit the inside of your cheek.

"So – you work with computers, right? What is it that you do with them?"

"I test certain programs, make sure they function correctly, I also make some myself. They aren't horribly complicated but I do have a website for them," you said, hoping your explanation wasn't too complicated. You never knew with Ahk – sometimes he got it immediately, sometimes you needed to explain fifty times. "Here," you said, "I'll show you one that I’m working on."

He scooted even closer to the desk, eyes wide with curiosity and intrigue. Every now and then he'd pick up this child-like love of things, namely balloons and coffee, and now the computer. Every now and then you wished he'd direct that child-like love to you.

Typing in your website, you opened up the home page, quickly navigating till you came to the various programs and ideas you kept. There you scanned through them, wondering which one Ahk would like more, as well as what would be impressive to a 4,000 year old Pharaoh.

"I think you'll like this one. It's a video game I'm working on with Valve, still a prototype and all that, that's why it's on my website," you said, clicking on it and loading up what you had so far.

"Why would being a prototype qualify for being on your webbings?" Ahk asked as he watched the loading screen with much interest.

"We need beta testers, just to play over the levels and such, make sure there aren't any bugs in the coding. Most programmers though, uh," you paused as the game loaded up, the glass walls of the prison surrounding the first person view of the game, "they, um, they don't work with games. A lot of programmers work with things like lags in the loading, stuff like that, y'know?"

"I... think so," he said as he nodded slowly. "How does this game work?"

You proceeded to explain how video games were a sort of 'playable story,' with dialogue and options as well as puzzles and battles much more engrossing than those in board games. He seemed to understand that well enough, so you moved onto how to control the character. Currently, there was only one room built into the game, with only one puzzle to solve, but that didn't stop Ahk's face from lighting up when you asked if he wanted to play. He nodded vigorously, moving into your place when you scooted to the side.

This game was one you were both proud and happy to be working on – the concept was one you'd never seen before, and while it was hell trying to get the mechanics to work without confusing the player too much, the reward was fantastic. Besides personal fulfillment the pay wasn't bad at all, and it'd be great to put on your resume should you need it.

It took a little while and several more demonstrations, but he eventually learned how to move around, how the camera worked and how to spot bugs in the coding. From there you taught him the mechanics of the portal gun, reminding him early on that this wasn't a mechanic ever used before. He seemed delighted to try it out. With some help from you he finished the short level, using the portal gun to get out of the glass prison.

"It's still in the very early stages," you reminded him when he finished, a wide grin plastered across his face. "I doubt this level will even be in the actual game, but we'll see."

"How does it work? Do you animate it, or film it?" He asked, running the character all over the white room. You giggled.

"Not exactly," you said, taking the controls from him.

As you opened up the dev tools, lines upon paragraphs of coding appeared, showing words he couldn't understand, rules he couldn't comprehend, but it didn't stop him from trying. You continued to patiently explain how the computer worked, how one line could mean the color for one of the panels, or how a paragraph could dictate what happens when he as the player interacted with something.

"You made this?" Ahk asked as his mouth hung open, watching you scroll through the many lines of text.

"Some of it, yes, but my main job is to look for inconsistencies and problems in the coding," you said, unable to help from smiling. Hardly anyone had shown as much interest as Ahk did in your job, and his intrigue was a welcome change.

"How... how did you learn all of this?" He asked as he finally looked away from the coding, turning to face you. He sat impossible close to you, eager to see the computer, but it left you in a stumbling fluster as red coated your face.

"I, um – I went to, uh, school. And I had it as a, um, hobby when I was - uh, younger," you said, digging your nails into your thigh.

"Fascinating," he whispered, looking only to you as he spoke the word.

Everything in your body froze as he said that, wondering if he found your work fascinating, or technology, or just you. It couldn't be just you, but for a second you knew the exhilarating feeling of being admired by one you admired so greatly.

"Ahk?!" Larry yelled from the top of the stairs, gaining both his and yours attention. "Need you up here – statues don't recognize me again."

"Ugh," Ahk groaned, turning back to the now black screen for just a second before he faced you. "Thank you for the demonstration and for your time," he said as he stood, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your cheek before he ran off, his cape flying behind him as he raced up the stairs.

You caught your reflection in the screen.

You never looked more like a cherry than you did now.


	15. Merriel Shelton – One Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request:  
> hey there! hope i’m not bothering u. maybe a snafu x reader after the war where he tries to impress them at a bar with war stories but y/n was an air force pilot and it turns into a debate of who was more badass during the war? sweet at the end maybe? i’m addicted to ur writing lmao. thanks again for always answering my requests!

It had to be past midnight – somehow despite that fact, you were still wide awake. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn't taken your sleeping pills, or the pounding loud shouts of the bar's drunken patrons, but you did not lag behind your friend. She'd dragged you there, saying something about getting free drinks since she was banging the bartender. Before either of you knew it, she was off flirting with another man (which the bartender did _not_ like), and you were ordering your third drink. Not the most you'd drunk in one night, not even close, but it was enough to give you a pleasant buzz, allowing you to relax against the bar counter and look out across the crowd.

Within the next several hours most of the crowd had filed out, making way for a new wave of soldiers, ones that had just arrived home and were celebrating their life still belonging to themselves. You were once part of that menagerie; the only difference was you had become a marine before the war ever started, and while you were there for the beginnings of the war, your contract with the marine corps ended soon after. It left you feeling apart from both citizens and soldiers – someone who didn't know the horrors of war, but who was traumatized enough that society didn't care to love them anymore.

Unlike many returning soldiers, you did not turn to alcohol to fix your issues. For the most part you distracted yourself with work, working and working till there was nothing in your head _but_ work – there was little else in your life besides work now, the one exception being your friend, Penny. She made sure you ate, made sure you got outside and had human contact. For that you will always be grateful.

Your attention wavers from her only when one of the returning soldiers stands right beside you at the bar, ordering a bottle of beer before noticing you, his posture suddenly changing as he does so. His back straightens out a little, his hips a little more forward, elbows on the bar behind him so as to show off toned forearms and a skinny waist. He stares for a little while – you pay him no mind. When he gets his drink, that's when he actually speaks to you.

"What's a doll like you doin' here?" He says, and you almost roll your eyes. What a typical start.

"Keepin' a friend company," you answer him quietly, taking a swig of your own drink. It's not entirely a lie, although you feel you're keeping less and less of her company the more she drifts off to the side, caught up in the stare of a rather handsome man with a fair amount of scruff.

"Really? You come here often? I'm - jus' curious. I've never been here before," he says, clarifying that he isn't _that_ stupid so as to use that specific line, a clarification you appreciate.

"This is my first time. My friend though, she comes here often, says she likes the atmosphere," you tell him, nodding in the direction of Penny, who is currently in a corner with the stranger. "You're a soldier, right?"

"Yessir," he says with a proud nod, "just returnin', actually."

You nod absently, looking out across the general crowd before you at last meet his eye. In the neon red lights you can barely see him, the shape of his face against the black mass of people, the color of his eyes against long eyelashes that flutter when he scans you up and down. All you can tell about him is his voice – rough and deep, drawling his words and humming his thoughts.

"You meet many marines?" He asks, and you can already tell he's gearing up to tell you some horrid stories of the war. Unfortunately, you don't know him well enough yet to know if he's going to tell you the truth, and a small part of you hopes he doesn't tell the truth. The truth is gorey and dangerous and heartbreaking, and you're not ready to live out such memories and tales again. Not yet.

"I've met a few," you say vaguely, watching the way a grin cracks across his face as he chuckles smooth and low.

"All I gotta say is you're lucky I ain't no army kid, those assholes are weak as all hell," he says, something you fully agree with, and something that has a sweet giggle coming involuntarily out of you. He smiles even bigger when he watches the way you laugh.

"My father was a marine," you say, coming down from your high. "He said the same thing."

"He's right, y' know... me n' my troop, we was out on that godforsaken island in the Pacific, hot as hell every day – humid, too. We saw hell n' back, shootin' at Japs n' gettin' shot at, sitting in all those damn trenches, up to ya knees in mud, and there go the fuckin' army soldiers, prancing around like goddamn deer. Funniest shit I ever seen, though to be fair, I don't think any a' us had much to eat that day," he recalls fondly, but you can tell he's suppressing the worse memories. You don't ask on that – it'd be rude, and it's not a subject you want to talk about. Nonetheless, he continues. "An you know, you're sittin' in mud all day n' night, you're gonna get pretty dirty, right?"

You nod attentively. If there's one thing you're still good at after your time in the marine corps, it's listening well.

"So we're all covered in mud, and they come by in a neat row, with their freshly washed hair and white as all hell skin – I made a bet with this one fella, Burgie, a' said they'd get so sunburnt after a week on that island, they'd be cryin'. I was right, of course," he says, motioning with his hands as he told the story. At the end he rubs his nose and turns back to you, watching for your reaction, and loving the way you still manage to enjoy his story.

"So you're tellin' war stories now?" You ask, leaning in closer and smirking imperceptibly when his breath catches in his throat. "What's your best story, then?"

He doesn't skip a beat, another one of those sweetly impure smiles coming across him as he starts.

"Hell, there's a lot to choose from. I do remember though," his hand comes up to his shirt collar, unconsciously toying with it, "this one Jap snuck into our camp, still don't know how, but he was one a' those damn kamikaze soldiers, the radical ones. He shouted somethin', don't remember what, but everyone went for their guns – I did too, an' we all pointed at his chest, cause it's easier to aim that way, y'know? But the bombs were tied to his chest, so a' aimed at the head. Shot him dead center between his eyes," he tells you with an air of pride and a hint of disgust. You don't blame him.

"That's a good story," you say with a small smile.

Anticipation creeps up on you as you wait till he's done prattling off little details, just waiting till you can watch the light die in his eyes as you tell him your _own_ war story.

"I think my best marine story would have to be when I was flyin' over this active war field, there's fighter pilots everywhere in the sky, and sometimes it's hard to tell which jet belongs to which side in the moment. Everythin' goes by fast, but I saw this Jap flagged plane drop a bomb the size of a whole person. Immediate reaction was to shoot at the bomb, and I got pretty lucky – it blew up midair, and I was far enough it didn't hurt me," you say, unable to stop a grin from coming to you when the man slowly realizes that he's talking to another marine.

"Oh, you're a marine too, ain't you?" He says, but it's not a question – no, it sounds more like a challenge, and one you're completely willing to participate in. "Where you stationed?"

"I was in Hawaii at first," you say quietly, and he immediately gets the implication. Although you both now know what you saw, and the topic is in your heads, neither of you explore that further. "Later got stationed at some place in the Pacific. Like you. Though, I was on the ocean, not an island."

"What's your kill count?" He asks, and he leans forward just a little bit, drawing closer to you.

"Does it really matter?" You ask in return.

"'Course it does. You gonna be out here tellin' me you didn't count?"

"I didn't," you say truthfully. "A bit hard to see how many y' kill from a thousand feet in the air."

"Y'ever do parachute drops?"

"Once," you say. "Did you?"

"Nah, parachute drops ain't nothin' compared to the shit I did," he says, dismissing the notion as if it wasn't important. Now he's trying to impress you – _again_.

"Really?" You ask, almost sarcastic, but you manage to hold that part back. "What is it that you did then that was so much more terrifying and dangerous than freefalling through the atmosphere?"

"Try carryin' mortars on ya back in searing heat, n' all the while you n' ya company's out takin' a little hike 'cross a whole island filled with Japs," he says cockily, angling his chin upwards in a motion that accentuates his already sharp-as-hell jawline.

"Wow, a whole island," you say sarcastically, but he sees the humor behind it.

"Hey, Japan's an island too an' they big enough that they got the whole nation in uproar," he points out.

"Whatever makes you feel better," you say, taking a sip of your drink.

"What's your rank anyway?" He asks as he puts his drink on the counter, crossing his arms.

"I'm a major," you say, and once again the light dies in his eyes. You almost want to spare him the embarrassment of telling you his own rank, but you _are_ curious, and it's just too fun to let him off. "What's your rank?"

"... corporal," he answers quietly, and you have to hold back a laugh. You try _really_ hard, you really do, just so hard not to laugh, but you end up snorting anyway, and you can't even begin to work on your smile.

"Alright, corporal," you say, still trying not to laugh. Placing your own drink down on one of the bar coasters you turn to him, curling his loose tie around one of your hands and pulling him forward, practically devouring his nervous delight. "Y' really wanna play this game?"

"I'm the one who started it, ain't I?" He says, and you admire his tenacity to talk back to a superior officer.

"What's your full name and title, Corporal?"

"Corporal Merriel Shelton," he answers softly, his eyes suddenly stuck on the words that form on your blushing lips. "Ma' friends jus' call me Snafu, though."

"Mmm," you hum, looking him up and down much like he'd done to you earlier, "the hell you do to earn that kind a' name?"

"Oh, I'm just reckless, baby," he says with a smirk, gaining the confidence needed to lean into your touch more. You can feel his hips almost pressed against yours, the feeling doing nothing but making you pull his tie even more, a smile beginning to tug at the edges of your lips.

"Mind showin' me?"

"Not at all," he says in the impossibly low voice of his, and with that you're his, if only for the evening.


	16. Elliot – Be It The End Of Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request:  
> hey again! i was wondering if u could do an elliot x reader, kinda like an enemies to lovers, where he thinks they’re an average person until they outsmart him which both impresses and pisses him off? but like sweet at the end? also from his pov so that we can hear his little monologues? i’m a sucker for happy endings. thanks and love ur writing

Be it the end of days, Elliot would not call upon you. Of course he wouldn't – he barely knew you, only your name and face and the position you held relative to him. Another worker much like himself, just far more normal than him, and far less intelligent than him. That fact didn't stem from any specific dislike for you; just the truth. Among your coworkers you did not stand out, a tactic he often wished he had.

You were barely on his radar, at least not until the question of method came up during a meeting. Some hellhole business had hired them for cyber protection, and out of all those gathered at the tables, Gideon called upon you and him for answers. Elliot suggested the method they usually used – application security. You did not. Instead, with the tip of a pen pressed delicately against your chin, you told Gideon and those present that it'd be a better idea to use network security. Not a massive difference, but a big enough one that your suggestion irked him. The way you said it, too – "I _think_ network would be better," so kind and sweet, a facade so heavy Elliot was surprised you still had a job.

For some strange reason your boss agreed with you.

And you ended up being right.

And suddenly, you became a lot more of an important person in his life, in the definition that he hated you. He payed more attention, and with that he noticed something he should've known all along. You were _smart_. Like him.

You were smart – so what? Confusion persisted when he tried to think of _why_ that irritated him so terribly. Maybe it was because you remained normal. The two of you were equals, so why did he have issues? Where were yours? From everything he'd noted of you, and as of recent that was quite a lot, you were perfectly fine. No anxiety, no nightmarish mental disturbances, no addictions, no loneliness – kindness was your 'thing'.

Maybe he was just jealous.

The thought stewed like sick in his head as you laughed, the soft sound coming from the break room to his desk, just to make his fist curl and his jaw grind. This feeling, it felt... less than normal. Just like every single fucking thing about him, and he dug his nails further into his palm.

Be it the end of days, Elliot would not trust you. It couldn't be real – you never cried, you never looked stressed, and though you weren't always smiling you were certainly never frowning. Of course, he only noticed this while at work. After hours he found your various online accounts, and what starts as pure curiosity turns into a search for your records, wondering if there's anything that's ever been wrong with you.

Beautiful hair, soft skin, shining eyes, and a smile that could melt ice away from even his heart. No, nothing wrong there. Happy parents, no sign of disability, financial security. Nothing wrong there either. Good friends, useful hobbies, beautiful eyes. _Beautiful_ eyes, saccharine like warm honey and sweet mints. He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts and waving away the people in his head, redirecting his attention to trying to get your medical records. Just out of curiosity. He doesn't get it – at least not that night, but he knows he'll get it eventually. Just a matter of time, and it's better than simply asking you, an act he would never find approachable.

On Thursday, despite his own leanings, he does actually talk to you. For the first time, and it's quite a lot harder to hate you when you smile and listen carefully to the words he says like they're the most important thing in the world. He'd expected your upfront kindness to be rude and subtle, that passive aggressive thing rich people _loved_ to use. It's still polite, of course it is – you don't know him, although he'd bet he knows you. Nonetheless you act like you don't know him, and while most people would consider it a hindrance to conversation, you use it to your advantage.

You ask him if he's comfortable as though it's a normal question. You make sure you aren't bothering him, you ask if he wants to talk about the project, you respect every boundary he sets, you wait for him to respond as he talks to himself in his head, but the most surprising part is that somehow it feels normal. Like these are normal questions to ask, like you do this with everyone, and by the end of it he's wondering if you actually _do_ do it for everyone.

Later you ask him if he wants to go out with some of your coworkers for a drink. He says no, you don't try to get him to come, and you give him the option of coming later if he wants to. You also tell him he's welcome on any other evening out. Over the next couple weeks you stay true to your word – you ask him if he wants to come, and one evening he says yes. Not out of any pressure from you, just simple curiosity to your behavior outside the workplace.

Turns out you aren't all that different. You keep up that rule of comfort, and as you meet multiple people in the crowded bar he wonders how the hell you keep up with it without bursting out in irritation. Even he can't keep up, and he's one of those specific people, the kind that need alterations to interactions to be comfortable. You hold open the door for those behind you, you bring drinks to those who ask you to carry them, you listen to the stories of strangers and friends alike. You smile almost the entire evening.

And he catches you in that smile, your eyes meeting his. Recognizing him you smile even wider, waving at him as a pleasant blush covers over your cheeks, a genuine happiness to simply be near him in a way that might mean you're friends.

No one smiles when they see him. He's a bit of a horror story in the office, but you smile.

It's a nice feeling.

Be it the end of days, he would not join your life. He's too much of an embarrassment, too much of a fuck-up to exist without guilt in your story, too terrified of hindering your potential. You're perfect, and while at first he didn't believe it to be true it's clear now.

He avoids you for the most part. Ducking out of rooms and meetings, staying right at his desk, leaving work early or late relative to your schedule. At first when you pass by him (rarely with his efforts), you still smiled and waved silently. After a while, you stop smiling, and a little while later you avert your eyes at his presence. He feels horrid for what he does, seeing how you're even now trying to make him comfortable through recognizing his disinterest in you and accordingly growing a faux disinterest in him.

It's not like that unhappiness is always visible – in fact, it rarely shows, only in the moments where your eyes mistakenly meet. However most other hours of the day you're working with that tapping of your foot and the soft humming that he can only hear if he strains. That or talking to your coworkers, helping them through difficult issues and scanning through data.

Even with his special steps made to rid you of his unpleasant life, there are moments where it's unavoidable to in the very least be near each other. Mandatory meetings and office parties that he's roped into, unwillingly of course, but as his coworkers drink you join him on the faraway couch looking over the bustling, tipsy crowd.

"I know you don't like me all that much," you say, words soft and not meeting his eye. You remembered he doesn't like eye contact all that much. "I just want to apologize if I ever said or did anything to offend you. I didn't mean to, you seem like a very kind person."

He scoffs, and in confusion you look to him.

"You know I'm not nice," he mutters almost under his breath, but as always you pay close attention and decipher his words.

"Not to people you don't trust, no. Sometimes people find it hard to trust others and that's perfectly okay," you say with a smile, one that he quickly looks away from. "But you're not cruel. You're actually rather polite when people respect you in return. It's not an uncommon trait at all."

You think he hates you and you're _still_ trying to make him feel better.

"How the hell do you do it?" He finally asks, the words blurting out before he can fully process what they mean. When he hears what he says his heart stops, shivering in the silence of your reply, anxious to see if you'll even answer at all.

"Do what?"

"Be nice. To everyone," he explains himself, growing quiet with each passing second.

Again you pause, thinking on his question before you answer.

"I do get annoyed with people a lot. I don't want to do things for people sometimes, but when people ask of me something I ask myself, 'what do I lose from doing this?' and 'what does this person gain from me doing this?', and usually it doesn't cost me anything, and most times it relieves stress off a lot of people," you say, using small hand gestures as you speak. "That, and it takes very little effort to make sure people are comfortable. Also helps you to get to know the person better, you know? You get a lot information about people when you know what makes them comfortable."

He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. Instead he scoffs, stands, and leaves.

Be it the end of days, he would not ask anything of you. You're perfectly happy, and he's mostly satisfied knowing that you're more human than he previously thought. Not fully satisfied – a part of him wants to be close to you, yearns for that warmth you could so easily give him, that kindness in you that he finds so rarely. But he does fine on his own, and so do you, and he finds he doesn't know how to go about becoming friends with you. He doesn't know how, so he doesn't try.

Time passes and he tries to think of you less often, only successful once every two full moons. The rest of the time he looks across the clean-cut cubicles for you, over the grey wasteland for your glow, aching to hear that distant humming again. You come to him in dreams and hallucinations alike, and sometimes he even falls for it. He _lets_ himself believe it, that you'd somehow find your way to his apartment, that you'd be willing to offer familiarity and kindness – even to someone like him.

Fortunately the two of you are on good terms, relatively. Better than they were when he was avoiding you entirely. Now he's just not interacting with you. He's fine being in the same room, hell, he's fine standing next to you, but he doesn't strike up a conversation. Neither do you, and the polite but work-centered relationship continues.

On a rainy evening his boss catches him before he can leave, asking if he could put in a few hours off the clock, and everyone knows bosses never ask. So he sits back down at his desk, thinking bitterly on what he could be doing instead of stuck inside lifeless walls as rain and hail batters hell against the skyscraper windows. Outside, there aren't any lights – he's too high up in the sky to easily see the lights of cars and restaurants on the streets. All he can see is a powered out building's dark windows, so he doesn't linger on the view long.

Slowly most other people file out, but he's not quite done with the assignment. It's not quite right, something's out of place, hidden from his searching eyes that scan the bright screen so ferociously. A burning sensation begins to grow in his head, begging him to return to his home computers where the pixels aren't quite so large. His tie holds a tight rope around his neck, his breathing growing harsh, and the trance of discomfort only broken when the sound of a curse, followed by the slap of a hand against a counter and a choked sob, reaches him.

Peeking over the walls he looks to the break room, the source of the noise, and in the seemingly empty office (completely empty to you), you're curled up on the floor with your hands over your eyes. His breathing halts when another sob wracks through your body, your shoulders shivering with the intensity that holds him in place, unable to look away or to move closer. A screech comes from your shoe when it slides across the linoleum floor, curling your legs tight against your chest.

You're muttering something – something he can't quite hear, but he's spoken the words himself enough times that he thinks he knows what you're saying.

_Shut up._

_Please be quiet._

_Go away._

He knows what that means to him. Breakdowns, unrelenting voices, pushing him and criticizing his every move, but that's him. That's normal for him, he's broken in that way and a dozen others. You're not.

You're not broken at all, and for that a new curiosity blooms in his chest. It's a little sick, but it pushes him to approach you, slow footsteps making themselves clear to ensure you wouldn't jump.

"Hey," he says rather lamely, his voice low and cracking with his insecurity. He's not usually on the giving end of comfort, and to be fair, he's not usually on the receiving end, either.

"I'm sorry," you get out, your tone like the creaking of a rotted door, tired and broken. You keep your face hidden in your hands. "I didn't know you were here."

"It's... I don't mind," he says, this time much more even, and with that clarity you recognize him.

"What are you doing here so late, Elliot?" You ask softly, your breathing beginning to even.

"Gideon asked me to," he answers. "You?"

"Needed to look over some coding," you mumble, finally raising your head from your hands. Strands of hair stick to your skin, wet from tears and blushing from the heat of your hands.

Shifting slightly, he moves from a knelt position to a sitting one, his legs crossed as he sat in front of you, using that patience you so often had and this time using it to your advantage. He can wait – it doesn't cost him anything, and it would mean the world to you.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asks quietly when you fully get your breathing under control.

"Thank you," you murmur, staring at the ground beside him. "You ever have.. these thoughts, they... bad thoughts, that just keep on telling you to do bad things?"

"... yes," he answers hesitantly.

"You can't tell anyone this," you add quietly, to which he fully agrees. He's giving a part of himself here, too. "... but it's worse than that. They can put these visions in my eyes, it's usually manageable. Bugs that aren't there. Ghost fingers on my face and back. Sometimes it gets bad though, and it wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to keep it secret. I could get fired, you know."

"I know," he says almost automatically, but he does know what it's like. To question what's real, never knowing if those words in your head are your own, unable to see past the charade of a reality. "I get them too," he says, and immediately he knows he's chosen the right words for once.

"Thank you for telling me," you say, always a mediator between the worlds people make up in their minds. "It really does make me feel better that I'm not alone."

You're emotional. He knows that, he knows you're interested in the emotions of yourself and others, but only now does he realize it's actually clinical kindness. Respect above all, thank you for the littlest things, and a plain explanation of your own emotions. Maybe it makes it easier for you – he knows he certainly appreciates it. Sometimes it's hard to decipher facial emotions, and having you tell him straight lets him skip past that uncertainty and into a place he knows he can help from.

Be it the end of days, he would protect you. You're like him, and he's like you, and while the differences are too clear to those viewing your friendship, there's actually more similarities than differences. Sure, you're wonderful with social interactions, but you also hear voices, like him. You have breakdowns, like him, you handle your emotions with very specific preferences.

Somehow you become part of him – the innocent part, the part worth saving, and that's why he would protect you. You're a part of him in a way that makes him think _maybe I'm not all bad_ , as long as the part that isn't bad is you. He lets you in bit by bit, inviting you to his apartment on a whim, even letting you cook dinner for the two of you.

You stay over one night. Not on purpose, but you fall asleep on the floor, facing the buzzing television with your dirty plate beside you. Keeping quiet he takes both your plates, leaving them in the kitchen before joining you on the floor. Hesitantly he raises his hand, reaching for you with delicate fingers aiming to brush the stray hairs falling upon your sleeping face. He does just so, taking in a moment where he can touch you without fear. Where it's just you, no crying thoughts on how you might despise this time spent with him, how you hate the way he moves and speaks – it's just you.

And you've turned into everything.

The flowers growing in the cracks of cement. The rain that patters against the forest canopy, slipping past the leaves, mist creeping up through the mountain's valley. The sun that shines warm against his clothes and melts sweet ice cream. The bird song in a city park. The mother with her child. The poetry of old and new poets, the bubbles in soda, handwritten words on rough parchment. You are the paint on the hands of budding artists, the soft pillowcases of a bed loved by a decades-old couple, the posters hanging in a teenager's room, every lovely thing in the world, every action, scent, feeling, and taste imbued with a life given by those who adore their worlds so dearly.

Be it the end of days, he would love you, and nothing more.


	17. Ahkmenrah – Antibiotic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request:  
> hi there! i was wondering if u could do an ahk x reader where he’s sick (like a mild fever or something) and reader has to take care of him while he’s being a melodramatic princess? thanks?

It was a strange thought indeed – when one surpasses life and joins that which is inevitable, one might believe that the ailments of life would be left behind as well.

This was, apparently, not the case.

Ahk had been complaining about a headache for several days, but neither you nor Larry paid it much mind, considering a headache usually goes away, and the two of you didn't feel like bringing painkillers. Larry actually divulged to you that he believed Ahk was faking – some sort of ploy to get your attention, but it didn't work until quite recently, when he woke up and immediately complained about being cold. He never, ever complained about being cold. Not even when he wore his Pharaonic garb made for endless summer out in the cold of New York winters, and for you, that was the final straw.

Taking his hand you led him to the break room, sitting him down on the couch while you rifled through the cabinets in search of a first aid kit, where a thermometer was bound to be.

"I don't see how my temperature is going to help this," he mumbled, his face pressed into the cheap pillow he held tight to his chest.

"Ahk, I don't think it's your place to ask questions. Who has more advanced technology here?" You said, your tone laced with a humor that usually had Ahk laughing. Now, he stayed silent, sniffing dramatically.

Rolling your eyes, you opened the last cabinet, finding a basket full of band aids, bandages, braces for sprained thumbs – that kind of stuff. Only a moment more of rifling through the items and you found what you were looking for – something you could stick in Ahk's ear, that would tell you if he was sick.

As you approached him with the device in hand, his eyes widened and he began to back up.

"What is that?" He asked, sounding suddenly like he was perfectly okay.

"It'll take your temperature. It won't hurt, don't worry," you said with a hint of a smile, "it just goes in your ear."

"... how far?"

"Jesus Christ," you muttered, grabbing his exposed hair and holding him in place. He let out a yelp as you did so, his hands going to yours in an attempt to alleviate the weak pressure you were holding him with, but to no avail. You kept him in place, sliding the thermometer in and clicking the grey button. It beeped two times before it finished, and as you pulled it out, you read the number.

"Is it bad? Am I going to die? Oh, no I wouldn't die. I'd just be in misery for the rest of my existence," Ahk moaned, his voice cracking as he stared at the wall listlessly.

"You're 99 degrees. That's one degree above normal," you said, chuckling.

"Oh Gods, I _am_ going to die!"

"You're really not. All you need is to take it easy for a couple days. I doubt you even need medicine," you said as you stood, making your way back to the open cabinets, and putting the thermometer back in the basket.

"Will you nurse me back to health then? Please (Y/N)," he pleaded, grabbing your hand and pressing it against his soft cheek when you once more stood before him. Your heart picked up till you were sure he could hear it, the thundering of your heartbeat in your fingertips. "I need you."

"You don't really..." you trailed off as he gave you a near pitiful look. Biting your lip you tried to steady your breath, ignoring the way he moved into the warmth of your hand. "Fine," you grumbled, surrendering to his request. Almost immediately a wide grin took the place of saddened eyes, and he pulled you down to the couch, sitting you as close to him as possible.

"I am indebted to you," he said, leaning against your body and nuzzling his face into your neck. Though a blush as intense as a wildfire burnt into your cheeks, you lay down, resting your head on another cheap pillow as Ahk lay half on top of you.

"You're quite a lot of trouble, you know that?" You said, wrapping your arm around him and placing your chin on the top of his head. He smelled surprisingly pleasant – like lavender. It was nice.

"I've been told that more times than you can count," he mumbled, hiding his face in your touch.

How exactly does a reanimated corpse get sick? You still don't know, but it isn't entirely undesirable. Not when you're in love.


	18. Elliot – And Every Little Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request:  
> could you do an elliot x reader where the reader describes elliot and what all things the reader loves about him

Elliot didn't seem the type of person who would like you – he was quiet and intelligent, like every person who belittled you just because you weren't smart. Because of that and that alone, you mostly avoided him, which wasn't hard. He didn't come to the hospital often, but when he did it was a hell of an uproar. All the patients went around telling about his injuries, making up stories to coincide with them, as Elliot was not the type of person to tell the doctors the origins of his wounds.

You stayed out of it.

Still, you'd pass by his room every now and then the few times you felt like you could walk. Most other times you stayed in your wheelchair, using the smaller break area to get snacks instead of going up a floor to the actual lounge.

Every now and then the rooms would switch up – more often you'd get placed in a communal room, shaped like a large hallway and filled with six or so patients in their beds. It freed up space for emergency patients and nonpermanent ones, but that didn't stop your bedmates from complaining. Most of them were old, and those who had good care were privileged, and did not understand nuances of the modern world. A good deal of them weren't even aware they were _in_ the modern world, and though it was sad to most others you found it interesting. They were practical gateways to different times, time travelling without ever leaving the hospital, learning new things without ever attending school.

Recently you were moved to a room fitted for two people, though for the most of that time it was only you in there. It was almost nice – the quiet, the privacy, and an indicator that the hospital wasn't overloaded. All things end though, and all things change, and one evening you awoke to find Elliot in the bed across from you. He was passed out, the curtain around him drawn only to hide him from the glass wall leading to the corridors. You could fully see him – the cuts on his head indicative of a concussion, the bruised eye most likely a result of a fight, the rough breathing caused by bruising and breaking of the ribs.

It took several days before he woke up from his coma, constantly under the surveillance of nurses who flitted in and out of the room. They ignored you for the most part, knowing you were a steady patient, and that you could handle yourself in this environment.

Your condition, while it couldn't kill you, was extremely unpleasant and often barred you from leaving your bed most days. Now you had little reason to otherwise – Elliot was... interesting. Just to watch. The way he stared up at the television, his fingers tapping against his leg and how the clamp around his forefinger made a heavier sound than the rest. A chronic fidgeter – a bit like yourself in that aspect, but the way he spoke was what really got you going. Rough and low, an almost monotone voice that lilted only in the most dire times. Still you kept your distance, reminding yourself that people like him did not like people like you. Restrained and disabled. Stupid and weak.

It had to be sometime in the middle of night. There were no clocks in your new room, but it was pitch black outside, the only light being the streetlights and cars busying themselves far below your floor. To your left, the hospital halls remained nearly empty. Most nurses and doctors had gone home, replaced by those in constant night shift, a job you did not envy. While you were nocturnal for your own health, working during the night seemed like an awful fate.

No matter – you pushed the blankets off your legs, hoisting yourself to sit up and soon stand tall on your feet. You hardly noticed Elliot still in the corner, at least not until the world began to black out, a cold tingling swarming over your head as you lost vision and feeling in your legs and arms. Only when you didn't hit the ground did you notice him. You felt the arms around you, the touch of warm skin against your freezing forearms, and his panicked breathing against your exposed neck.

"Thank you," you said rather dumbly, empty of any other reply. Wordlessly he helped you into your wheelchair, only returning to his bed when he trusted you were fully situated.

"Be careful," he mumbled.

Those were the first words he said to you, and though you didn't know it at the time, they were only the beginning of the many words and emotions he would communicate with you.

When you returned that same evening after your trip to the break room and bathroom, he was still awake, watching as you opened and closed the door behind you, waiting till you hauled yourself back into bed before he spoke.

"I've seen you here a lot," he said in that low voice that had your heart picking up. Thankfully, you were not connected to a heart monitor.

"That's probably because I live here," you said, chuckling softly, halted only by the expression he gave you. Unreadable but shocked – maybe mortified that he'd asked that question. Many people were. To them, you were glass.

Instead of apologizing, he asked, "why?"

"Neural condition. First of my kind," you said with almost a hint of pride – the first to have your type of disease. No cure, no shared misery, nothing. "Makes me have pain all the time and shuts off some of the networks in my brain. Body too, sometimes. 'S why I faint a lot when I stand."

He thought for a moment. At least that's what he looked like he was doing, staring at the blue blanket over his legs as a silence came between you.

"That must be difficult."

"Sometimes. I don't mind it so much though," you said, only a half lie. "It's all I've ever known. What are you here for anyway?"

He didn't answer. Instead he shifted onto his side, closed his eyes, and went to sleep. A sigh left you – of course he wouldn't tell you. He didn't even tell the doctors, so in his absence you pulled one of the books from your side table, turned on your reading light, and immersed yourself in a story for the remainder of the night.

In the daytime he continues to fidget, playing with his nails or his lips, running his hands through his hair – you love when he does that. You know you shouldn't love anything about him, considering he still hasn't shown any taste for you, but you find yourself admiring it despite that. Beautiful things can exist without reciprocation, and to be fair you aren't beautiful in most people's eyes. You’re broken, but you don't think on it much, and you don't imagine what you could've been. He's a wonderful distraction from that.

One evening he tells you – out of the blue he looks to the side of your head (the closest he's ever come to actual eye contact) and he just tells you. You hardly believe it, believe _him_ , but he speaks as though he's sincere. Besides, you're not here to doubt him. You're here to listen.

"That's rough buddy," you said quietly when he finished. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"Who fuckin' knows," he grumbled, shifting his position to look out the window, where the edge of dusk faded over the horizon.

He gets better, eventually. And eventually he leaves the hospital – you tell him as he leaves, pulling on his clothes behind the curtain, that you enjoyed his company. That every horrible thing will have a place in his life, but that it's important to have a place for good things too. He doesn't really say anything. He mumbles something you can't hear, something you aren't fully meant to hear, and then he leaves.

Without a word.

He visits the hospital a couple more times, each time with the same injuries as before, and usually the same cause, but the only person he divulges the causes to is you. Quietly, so the doctors won't hear. Sometimes he sits at your bedside, even when you don't share a room, and he tells you about everything going on, everything in his life, every horrible thing he's stopped, every person he's inadvertently killed, every regret he's had, and he's had a lot of them. He's so broken, so tired of what he does – it's evident in the way he almost touches you. Softness fills his eyes when you smile, and the thought of it has tears brimming in your eyes.

You did that.

You made him happy.

It's worth it for that. He deserves happiness, has a better chance with it than you do – you have no say in your life other than the ability to roll yourself into an elevator and fling yourself off the roof of the building. But he has friends, albeit few of them, and he has work. Hobbies, too. When he talks about his hobbies (which you'd refer more to as hyper-fixations) you can almost see him smile. He gets more animated, he talks and talks and talks for ages and you listen. You listen well, even though you can't understand, and you ask questions in hopes of clarifying despite the fact you know you'll never understand. Again, you're not smart like he is. Not after all your medication.

Eventually his trips to the hospital begin to change in their meaning. He comes for check ups every now and then, and each time he visits you. He brings food from the world outside, new books, trinkets, things that might remind him of you, and each time he plays it down like it's nothing. But you have nothing left, no parents or friends, so the 'nothing' he gives you amounts to everything in your head.

Eventually his trips to the hospital become meaningless. He doesn't even check in – he just makes a beeline for your room, sometimes asking the front desk where you are if the rooms change, but for the most part he ignores everyone else in the hospital but you. It shatters and rebuilds your heart. This man who has lost so very much, gone through so many terrible things finds solace in you. He visits the hospital just for you.

No one does that.

You're a hard friend to have. You can't go out, you can barely walk, every now and then a shot of pain will interrupt a conversation to the point where you're writhing on the floor, pounding your fists against your head or anywhere where it might hurt as the nurses rush in and put you under anesthesia. You're embarrassing, and your whole life feels like a detriment to those around you.

Elliot holds your hand, and he hums. Quietly, and a tune you can't identify, but it stirs you out of one of those breakdowns, your dizzy vision focusing to see his silhouette against the city skyscrapers, the plush of his lips in the fluorescent lights, the scarce comfort in his eyes that appears only around you. To him you are safe, and to him you are his. To you, he is love, and to you, you are his.

Uncommon people band together, protect each other from the world meaning to do them harm, and there is no greater example of this than when he hides himself in you, and you let yourself live in him. A strange connection indeed, and not one anyone else would understand. You hardly understand it yourself, but when he smiles for the first time, a wide smile, followed with a laugh that comes from his chest as his eyes shut and he falls back in his chair – you hardly feel your pain. It's just him.

It's just him, and nothing else needs to exist.


	19. Ahkmenrah - Leeway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you just need to feed the person you accidentally embalmed alive a lot of vodka. A LOT.

Despite the popularity of the Egyptian exhibit in the museum, there was really only one hallway and one room for it. A hallway filled with smaller artifacts, and in the center of it all, Ahkmenrah's tomb. What with being the only ancient Egyptian in the whole of the museum, he was rather lonely – that made up one of the reasons for the new exhibit, but the main reason was a money grab.

Now, the new exhibit wasn't _nearly_ as royal as Ahk's room. No massive guards, no rooms catered specifically to it, no hieroglyphs surrounding it. In fact it was the tomb of a servant – that's what historians categorized you as after seeing your wooden sarcophagus and the poor wrappings of your mummification. There was nothing but you in your tomb; no dolls, no artifacts, not even any pottery offerings. Ahkmenrah didn't know any of this, though – no, he was just excited to have someone who came from the same era. His thrill stemmed mainly from his fear of forgetting how to speak Egyptian. With you on your way, he could rid of that fear.

He was told of your exhibit about a day before you arrived, and throughout the whole of the waking night he thought of you. Who could you be? Maybe your times were a thousand years apart; Egypt did have a rather long rule, after all. There was also the chance you were from exactly his time, and part of him hoped that was to be.

The next evening he awoke giddy, a grin on his face from the moment he opened his eyes. A few minutes and Larry came to help him out, stripping off the remaining linen before standing tall, gold falling from his body as silk.

"Is the new exhibit here?" He asked immediately, eager to meet you.

"Yeah, this way," Larry said, guiding Ahk out of his room with a chuckle.

A bundle of nerves began to ache in his chest, begging him to hurry his step. He tried his best to keep calm, soon standing in front of an open archway, leading into a room filled with the broken down, dusty artifacts of his previous daily life. Shabti dolls came to life in glass cages, and beside all the shields and various weapons lay a rotted, wooden coffin. At the sight he frowned – there were no inscriptions on the coffin, not even a hint that they might've once been there. Without those inscriptions it was terribly hard to navigate the afterlife, but that wasn't his main problem at the moment.

The biggest issue was that you were rattling against the wood, moaning weakly from your first wake of the dead. Your coffin sat in a large, glass box, and as both Ahk and Larry realized that, Larry dug into his pocket for keys to open the box.

The moment the glass door opened, Ahk crammed himself inside, careful not to step on the bits of pottery as he knelt at your side. Gently he raised the lid, helping you sit up. Together you worked out of your wrappings, which fell to the bottom of the coffin, before the last of it came off, revealing your face.

"Wait a -"

"You!" You shouted, brows furrowed in a rage both Larry and Ahk rarely saw. Jabbing him in the chest with your finger, you glared him out of the box, following him as you stumbled onto the linoleum floor. "You're the guy who killed me!"

"Wait, what?" Larry said, his tone suddenly serious.

"I did _not_ kill -"

"You fucking buried me alive, you son of a bitch! Do you know how painful it is to have all your organs removed for a damned embalming?!" You yelled as your face grew red, filled with the pressure of your anger.

"Okay, wait, wait –" Larry stood inbetween you two, but your eyes never left Ahk's rather terrified face. "First thing's first. How do you know English?"

"You think you guys are the first people insane enough to bring me to life? I lived in a sorcerer's home for ten years and he treated me better than you _ever_ did," you said, aiming your venom at Ahk. Again. "I felt safer with him and he took off my arm and resewed it back on!"

"In my defense, I didn't know you were alive, alright?" Ahk tried defending himself, but you wouldn't hear it.

"You fucked up big time, buddy," you seethed, shoving your face right up against Ahk's. "I wasn't the goddamn murderer. The other one was."

"Oh. Oh, no," he said as the color drained from his face. "Shit, you were innocent?"

"Okay can someone tell me what the hell is going on here?!" Larry finally interjected, gaining both of your attentions.

"There was this, um, incident, while I was a prince," Ahk began, reluctant to tell. "A few murders had happened in the city, so the soldiers tracked down who they believed the murderer to be, but they were fighting with someone. Like, really bad. I was with them and there was quite a lot of blood."

"I would've won, too, if you let me," you grumbled bitterly.

"One of them claimed to be a famous poet, and the other one was unemployed. Obviously the murderer, but we couldn't tell the difference between the two," he continued, ignoring your remark. "There was this whole trial to figure out who was who. What – what was your penname again?"

"Siamun," you said.

"Right. Unfortunately, I guess we got the wrong one," he said rather blankly, regret plain on his face.

"And then he threw a spear at my chest, proclaimed me dead _despite the fact_ that I was still breathing, and then they tore out all my goddamn organs," you finished for him, telling 'Larry' the rest of the story Ahk hesitated to mention.

"It wasn't a spear," Ahk said as though it mattered.

"Knife. Sharp pointy thing. I'm still pissed at you," you said, crossing your arms with great force.

Larry looked between the two of you for a moment before speaking.

"I think I know how to make you feel better," he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and leading you out of the room.

"I highly doubt that," you said quietly, sending one last seething glare over your shoulder at Ahk before you turned the corner, leaving him alone.

He almost cried – he rarely did, but this time was close. All that excitement for nothing. There was no way you'd be able to hold a conversation with him, which was fair, considering he didn't think he could hold a conversation with someone he wronged so deeply. The worst part was that he was quite the fan of your work, and it had been a long, long time since he'd been able to read or hear your words.

About an hour later he dragged himself to his feet with a weary sigh, slowly shuffling into the main room, where he could already hear music and the shouts of dancers and soccer players (for some reason). At the balcony he overlooked the whole of the crowd, eyes scanning over the jumping crowd till he found you sitting with Larry at the center globe. You had a bottle of some sort in hand, and from what he could tell, you were incredibly intoxicated. A new, sick hope sprouted in his head – maybe you'd be able to tolerate him while drunk. Strange thought, certainly, but not entirely improbable.

So, with that in mind, he headed down the steps, his cape floating down with him till he reached the crowd. Worming through the people, he made his way to stand on the other side of the help center desk.

"What did you do?" Ahk asked Larry, gesturing to you sitting on the office chair, spinning as fast as you could.

"I thought they could use some loosening up," Larry answered with a shrug. Ahk frowned.

"That's... what did you give them?"

"Hmm? Oh, just some vodka the previous night guards stored in Rexy's mouth," he said, nodding pleasantly.

"Isn't vodka ten times more powerful than our beer?"

"I hadn't really thought of that," Larry said with his hands on his hips, looking to you for a moment before returning to Ahk.

Once you stopped propelling yourself, your chair stopped spinning, and your smile quickly dissipated into a pale face as sickness overcame you. With lopsided eyes you tried standing, balancing the bulk of your weight on the desk. You gagged on your own tongue.

"That's no good," Ahk muttered under his breath, circling the desk till he stood beside you, wrapping an arm over your shoulder. "I'll take them to the bathroom."

"I think I'm going to throw up," you slurred, leaning into Ahk.

"Thought so. Let's hurry now," he said as he took you through the crowd, feeling thankful that the bathrooms weren't a floor above you. No, they were just to the side, and soon he was holding your hair as you hurled into the porcelain toilet.

You shivered despite the room being warm, and Ahk recognized it as tremors brought about by pain. He winced when you gagged, nothing but acid coming out as you moaned, white knuckles trying to find purchase on the tile floor.

"You.. what's your name?" You asked weakly, your voice rough from acid staining the back of your throat.

"... Naguib," he said after a moment of thought. He wasn't sure if you would remember his name, but he preferred to stay safe, and took his servant's name.

"You're being.. thank you," you mumbled, immediately gagging again afterwards. Nothing came out.

"Of course," he said softly, moving his hands to rub at your tense shoulders. You hummed, unable to move from your spot without feeling intensely sick.

"You're from Egypt, too, aren't you?" You said, tilting your head onto your arm to meet his eye.

"Yes," he confirmed. "Same time period."

"God, I miss it sometimes. Don't you?" You whispered, barely able to find the energy to keep speaking.

"It can get very lonely. That's why I'm glad you're here," he said with a small smile, making you close your eyes and offer your own soft, barely-there smile. "Do you mind speaking Egyptian with me?"

"Sure," you answered in the language he'd been longing to hear from a mouth other than his own.

"So... what was life like for you back then?" He asked despite knowing of most of your exploits (and accidentally being part of the final one. Death.).

"I was a scribe, didn't work for the King though. Didn't really want to. I liked his son, though. Nice guy except for when he stabbed me," you grumbled, your eyes half lidded. He flinched at your last words.

"What did you write of?"

"The world," you said with a weak smirk. "Poetry. Lots of it."

"Really?" He said, keeping his voice soft to soothe you. "Could you share some?"

"Maybe if I remember what I wrote," you replied with a snort. "Been a whole fuckin' while since then."

_Wow, you swear a lot,_ Ahk found himself thinking blankly, watching you tremble and try to keep yourself even.

"What about the prince?" Ahk asked after a long silence, his words barely there.

"Gods.. um... well, very kind. Got a bit of a stick up his ass, but damn, he was handsome. Pretty scary too, but don't tell him. Any of this," you slurred, once more readying yourself to hurl into the bowl. Ahk quickly moved his hands from your back to your hair, keeping it out of your eyes as you gagged, acid and vodka dripping off your tongue.

Even with you having a rather unpleasant time in the bathroom stall, Ahk felt rather good. You liked him – at least you _did_ , and for him, that meant there was a chance you could forgive him. Yes, embalming you alive was probably not the greatest thing he could've done, but you seemed forgiving enough. With anger formidable and forgiveness imminent, he almost smiled. Almost. And then you hurled again.

In the last hours of the night you started to get better. You could stand with help from Ahk (though you much preferred lying down), and your wits were a little more about you, words still slurred but not quite as unhinged. A few hours previously you stopped throwing up, and Ahk moved you from the bathrooms to McPhee's office. He had a nice couch in there, and Ahk doubted he would mind, considering how McPhee practically revered the living exhibits.

"Feeling better?" He asked, knelt beside you on the cushioned velvet couch.

"A little," you hummed, your voice cracking as you looked to him with tired, baggy eyes.

"We'll have to get you back to your coffin soon. I'll have to go to mine too," he said, stroking your hair. You blinked slowly.

"Why?"

"I'll tell you when you're a bit more coherent," he said with a smile. The edges of your lips turned up, but you were far too weak to form a full smile.

A few minutes later Ahk heard a knock on the closed door, and he excused himself from you with a gentle kiss on your forehead. Opening up the door an inch, he slipped through the gap, coming face to face with Larry.

"They doin' okay?" He asked, hands on his hips.

"Will be, eventually. Don't give them vodka. Ever," Ahk said, earning a hurried agreement.

"Yeah, no, definitely. What's up between you guys though?" He asked with vague hand signals gesturing between the two of them. "Like, you friends? Enemies? I can't tell."

"Currently my name is Naguib and I'm a servant."

"Oh, so not good."

"I didn't say that," Ahk said with a frown. "I asked them about 'the prince' and they actually had a pretty high opinion of me, all things considered, so that's good."

"Honestly I find it hard to believe you actually stabbed them. You don't come across as.. murderous," Larry said, a questioning look on his face.

"You've clearly never seen me watch TV," Ahk said flatly. "I'm a Pharaoh. I'm not sure what you were expecting, but my brother tried to kill me five times and I lost my best friend to banishment. I think I'm allowed a little leeway."

"Yeah, I guess so," Larry said with a sigh, forgetting they were genuinely discussing murder. _Murder_. "Ready to get them back in the coffin?"

"Right."

The two of them helped you back into your casket, a task that was made infinitely easier by the fact that you passed out while they were conversing. Before placing the wooden lid back on, Ahk leaned in, kissing your forehead one more time. Only then did he reluctantly crawl out of the glass cage, watching Larry lock you up.

"Why do you like them so much?"

"Eh," Ahk shrugged, "they're prolific when they aren't drunk."

"Fair enough."


	20. Webb Porter – Beautiful Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first time writing psychopaths les go

It was a bit of an honor, really – none of your friends would agree with you, but working with something so strange, so new, and so, so interesting was always an honor. It wasn't like your friends said anything. Probably because they didn't know, since the Incident was 'top secret'.

The prison, in all its steep, sharp majesty, stood before you. Its height nearly blocked out the grey sky. The men leading you said nothing, and you followed when they opened the door inside. From outside one of the doors you saw the cells, all stuck together, kept in a sterile, white room. You swallowed thick and turned back forward, hand clenching around your bag as you mentally prepared yourself.

You didn't say much. Neither did he, so for the first five or six minutes, you watched him. His behaviorisms, the tics stuck in his restless limbs. Pushing against the floor, flexing fingers, uneven, hurried blinking. Classic signs of discomfort. You couldn't blame him.

"I've read a lot about you," you said in a soft, humming voice that had his eyes flickering to you before landing on the closed notebook in your hands. "I know what they think of you. Do you want to clarify anything?"

He said nothing, returning to his fidgets.

"I also heard you enjoy music," you continued, pushing your hand into the bag sitting on the floor beside you. He watched with curious eyes as you pulled out padded headphones, setting them on the table beside you, before pulling out an older iPod. "I know you've got your violin, but sometimes I find it's nice to listen without having to play. Lets me study."

"How does it work?" He asked, his voice cracked and soft. It was hard to make him out.

"Bluetooth. Connects without a wire," you answered with a half-smile, proceeding to explain the rest of the technology. The guards wouldn't just let you waltz in and give a prisoner a wire, after all, and the extra cost didn't hurt you too terribly.

He didn't really start talking till around the third appointment, which for a patient of his type wasn't all that bad. Even then he kept that soft tone – so low, so smooth, almost like the music he so avidly listened to. You could feel your fingers tightening over your arm rest when he spoke.

"I just wanted to play for people," he mumbled, pinching at the skin of his jaw. "Do you know what that's like?"

"Yes, actually," you said, earning the mild, held-back interest of the prisoner. He stared at you, and with a deep breath, you explained yourself. "I wanted to dance for people. Then I was diagnosed with Meniere's disease, and now it's a struggle to stand. I know what it's like to want something and never be able reach it."

He stared at you with wide eyes. You were starting to get accustomed to the sight of that.

"I also know it's good to start something you _can_ do. Something achievable that can benefit yourself, maybe some friends, maybe groups of people. Some find that comfort in writing, or baking. Things like that," you said, knowing full well he wouldn't take your advice. Still, it was best to suggest something anyway.

The seventh week of sessions with him, appointments twice a week and each an hour or so long. That's how long he let you stay. If it were up to you or the warden, the sessions would be around an hour and a half, but if you tried to push it he would fall silent and listen to none of your words.

"I know this seems a rather foolish exercise," you said as you held out a drawing pad and a pencil, "but it does help some people. It doesn't have to help you, but I think you should give it a try. Just draw anything you want."

Hesitantly he took them from you, holding them in his lap as the eraser edge of the pencil tapped against his cheekbone. Folding your hands neatly on your own lap, you waited patiently for him to begin, a keen sense of curiosity keeping your attention. His head twitched to the side twice before he got sick of it, shaking his head to clear it out. Only then did he begin.

He kept the pad angled so you couldn't see his drawing. For about ten or so minutes he stuck to that activity, beginning to enjoy it about halfway through. When he leaned back, he examined the drawing, drawing a shaky breath as he handed the pad and pencil back to you.

Full body sketches, filled with lines and shadows that didn't quite connect. It looked as though he'd drawn it seven times and erased it six, but as the shapes came to fruition, you found the actual image he had drawn.

Himself in a suit. Nothing too grand, a plain one with one button on the blazer. You were more interested in the second figure beside him – a seated one sitting in front of a grand piano, their eyes closed and hands poised delicately over keys you couldn't see. At the other end of the piano was where Webb stood, his eyes closed as well as he danced to the music humming from his violin.

"You're a pianist, aren't you?" He asked, his voice still low and soft. You paused, looking up at him.

"Yes," you answered quietly. You hadn't ever told him that. "How did you know?"

"Fingers," he said. "You don't tap rhythms. You play them, and your fingers are stretched. You've been playing since you were a kid."

"Also correct," you said as you tried desperately not to give away your discomfort and amazement.

Two appointments later and he started to tell you about yourself. You reminded him gently that these sessions were for him, not you, but the words seemed to not have processed in his head. He just kept listing things about you – things you never told him, things not obvious about you, things your friends and family didn't even know.

"How long did you play bass for?" He asked one afternoon, his finger set against his lip.

"Orchestra in middle school through high school," you said despite not wanting to answer. "I was never any good at it, though."

"Too big?"

"... yeah. Mr. Porter, this isn't -"

"Where's your tattoo?"

You froze.

"I don't think it's appropriate for me to answer that question. How about you tell me about the people here? Do you get along with them?"

"They like my music," he murmured, his eyes directed at your own but staring through you.

"It's nice to have that," you said with a small nod.

Your home was a place of comfort with few windows and double locks on the doors. The only weak spot was the backyard, which was walled in. It'd be easy to break the glass of the wall into your living room, but you made the expense for 'unbreakable' glass, and in the evenings you felt thankful for that decision. You could sip at your tea without worry, turning on the TV and surfing through the many shows.

Despite being curled up for an evening of relaxation, your notebook sat beside you, open to the page of your most recent patient. A pencil sat in the dip of the binding. On commercial breaks you set aside your cup and picked up the notebook, flipping through the pages and trying to figure out exercises that would be good for each person. For Webb you made the special effort to think beyond your specialty. There were a number of things you wanted him to try – painting, stories, baking – just some senseless, harmless activities. Alongside that were a couple tests you could give him once he was ready.

"Even got your piano right," you heard a voice from behind the couch, making you shoot straight up and whirl around, the blanket around your shoulders falling forgotten on the floor. Webb stood in your open living room, his fingers tracing over your black grand piano seated in front of the wide open windows.

"What are you doing here?" You asked in a surprisingly firm voice, broken only by your concentration to get your phone out from between the couch cushions.

"I needed to see you," he spoke softly, almost airy in his tone as he stared at you with empty, grey eyes. When you moved he took a step forward. "I know you're going to tell them," he said, looking you up and down, "but I can't let you do that."

You ran. The front door was so close to you anyway – you assumed you could reach it before he could reach you, but your legs were weak. You'd always been weak, and now he reached for you, grabbing you by the ankle and dragging you across the wood while you did your best not to cry. You did shout, though – hopefully your neighbors would hear, but halfway through your second scream he tore his sleeve, tying it around your mouth.

Writhing on the floor, you felt him push your chest down, swinging his legs so he straddled you. As you began to hyperventilate he pulled rope out – _your_ rope – and tied your hands together.

"It's so easy," he breathed out, and you assumed he was talking to himself. You tried to speak, but with the gag, nothing came out but whines and moans. "You're so easy to... hurt," he murmured as he leaned in, his breath coasting against your cheek, highlighting the tears that fell unwillingly.

"You'll be good for me, right?" He asked of you, caressing your face with his hand, the other dug into your stomach's pressure point to keep you from moving.

You almost sobbed, but instead you tried to form words. Again, nothing but mumbles and cries came out.

"Shhh," he said in a soft, almost comforting voice. A shiver ran through your body, convulsing in your anxious muscles, trying to kick with the legs he sat on. "I won't hurt you," he murmured, leaning even closer to you, till his face rested in the crook of your neck, pressing gentle, fluttering kisses along your skin.

His hand reached from your cheek to your hair, tugging on it so harsh you let out a choked cry.

"We'll make beautiful music," he mumbled. "My violin, your piano, and you can sing... we'll be beautiful."


	21. Josh Washington – In Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You take care of him.

He wasn't weak when they found him. Scared, yes – but not weak. He fought back and he hurt them, but they controlled him, and sent him to the hospital where he was contained for a month. For the better half of that month he was not allowed visitors, not his parents, not his friends, but you visited him anyway. You weren't allowed inside his room, but you stood outside with your face pressed against the glass. He breathed deep when he slept – almost normal, with a Joker-like tear in his grin, teeth like a shark, and blood dripping from the wounds that refused to heal.

He turned to you and did not grow angry. He turned to you and he almost smiled – _almost human_ – and the doctors let you in. So you sat at his bedside, talking nonsense and reading him stories. Unfortunately his condition had fed a sickness to his mind, and though you showed up every day, he did not remember his time in the hospital.

His memory started to work like any other's only when he returned home from the hospital, kept in his room he recognized so easily. No one could tell if it was a conscious recognition or just a comfort in a familiarity he couldn't decipher, but it kept his tantrums and screeching at bay, and the sight of you sitting on his bed was one that calmed his temper. He didn't know why that was.

You spent all your time in his home, growing a fair enough relationship with his parents as you took care of him. Both his mother and father were busy, and as much as they wanted to be there for him, they couldn't fund his medicine _and_ spend time at home. That was where you came in; you moved into the bedroom beside his and you took care of him.

Running the bathwater, you peeked out into his room, where he sat entranced with the poster above his head. A small smile came to you before you turned back to the adjacent bathroom, dropping lavender and honey scents into the steaming water. Once it filled halfway you put in bubble mixture, watching as mountains of it began to appear, stopped only when you turned the faucet off.

"Josh?" You called softly, looking out to find him still staring at the poster. Quietly you made your way to him, taking his hand in yours and pulling gently. "I ran you a bath."

You couldn't tell if he understood your words. No one did, but nonetheless he followed you, a half smile on his face, which was as much as he could do with the scars healing across his cheeks. They were a horrific sight, still gaping and scabbed but you'd grown used to it. 

Sitting him down on the edge of the tub, you raised his arms, pulling his shirt off of him while he looked up at you as though you carved the moon into the sky. He often looked like that around you. You knelt in front of him, helping to pull off his socks and jeans before removing his boxers, all of which you kept in a pile on the floor while you helped him step into the warm water.

Immediately a rough sigh left him, his eyes closing as he sank into the bubbles. Rolling up your sleeves you grabbed a nearby cup, dipping it into the water before pouring it gently over his head, watching carefully for any sign of distaste. Like usual he enjoyed it – you supposed you'd enjoy warmth too if you were stuck in winter mountains for six months.

"Do they hurt much today?" You asked him, your soothing voice always a helper in your interactions.

With a water-soaked hand you cupped his cheek, running your thumb ever so gently over the injuries, helping the biting cold dissipate. He shook his head – a simple no, but when you tried to withdraw your hand he pulled you back, placing your warmth over his scars and melting into your touch.

"I'll need that soon, but alright," you murmured with a quiet giggle, an expression that had him smiling a crooked, broken smile.

Once more you ran water through his hair, letting him keep your hand sandwiched against his cheek (he still hadn't moved his hand away from yours) for another minute or so before moving to the shampoo.

"You're quiet today," you noted in a hum, massaging the shampoo into his scalp in just the right way. You'd gotten a lot of practice.

Like usual, he didn't respond, at least not in words. Despite his appearing to have forgotten english, you kept talking to him like normal – maybe it was laziness on your part, but you liked to believe he could understand you. Eventually he'd gain the consciousness to speak again. After all, he was getting slowly better, and with each passing week he grew more civil.

"Close your eyes," you said, preparing to run water over his sudsy head. He did so, and as your cup spilled warm water down his neck, he hummed pleasantly.

You went slow till you finished up, reaching low into the tub to release the plug. Even though your sleeves were rolled up nearly to your shoulder, you still managed to soak your shirt, bubbles still resting on your chest and stomach. Not that you minded, but you'd have to change shirts to make lunch.

The doctors told you one good meal a day – vegetarian of course, and snacks were allowed throughout the day. You kept to their words, though you could tell it annoyed Josh. He must've missed his old favorite foods quite a lot. If he remembered them.

Stirring the tomato sauce, you eyed Josh sneaking out of his room, making his way over to you. He looked over your shoulder and you could feel his breath, a warmth that only grew when he wrapped his arms around your middle, his chest against your back. Resting his chin on your shoulder, he hummed a tune you couldn't quite identify, pressing his cheek against your neck and jaw. You chuckled.

"Pasta or baguette slices?" You asked, looking to the unopened box of spaghetti and the freshly baked baguette his mother had gotten from a nearby bakery.

Unwinding himself from you he knelt at the counter, coming to eye level with the two objects. After a moment of looking between the two, he reached for the baguette, handing it to you.

"Alright," you said as you took it, offering a smile before he left the kitchen.

You sliced about half the baguette up, setting the pieces on a tray seasoned with olive oil, salt, and a hint of garlic. The tomato sauce would go well on it, and since the sauce already had garlic in it, you didn't need too much for the cooking sheet. With the sauce and the bread boiling and cooking away, you cut up broccoli and brussel sprouts. Those soon went into a pan, before being seasoned with olive oil and jalapeno slices. Fresh vegetables always took a shorter time to cook, though Josh liked them a little overcooked, which was a little harder for you to enjoy. Still, you found comfort in the routine, always happy to help him.

When you finished you called Josh over, who quickly jumped over the couch and rushed to your side, looking over the food with a hungry look. To be fair, he usually looked hungry. You helped him load food onto his own plate before getting your own, joining him on the couch, where you pulled up Hatari on the television. A classic.

He couldn't sit through the whole movie, so at the midway point you paused, taking care of the dishes before joining him in his room. For the most part he stayed up there, and this time was no different as you found him lying on his bed. In his hands he held an ADHD fidgeting toy covered in scratches from his claws which, to your surprise, were fading at the same pace of his scars. No one expected them to go away, but it was a pleasant revelation.

"I brought cookies. You know, the ones I made a couple days ago," you said, climbing onto the bed with him and placing the cookie box between you. "There aren't any more heart shaped ones, though. Sorry. I only made three of those."

One for his mother, one for his father, and one for him.

Scooting across the sheets, he leaned against you, his posture much lower than yours to the point where his head was almost in your lap. You placed your arm over his head, resting your hand on his shoulder and tracing tiny shapes on his shirt.

"We'll need to go take your medicine soon," you reminded him softly, something that had him burying his face deeper into your waist. "You can sleep for now, though."

He loved touching you, that much was obvious to anyone who observed your interactions for more than a minute. Something in his mind told him you were safe – you couldn't be more thankful for that little memory, as faint as it was.

He never said your name. He didn't always recognize your voice if you called from another room. When he had nightmares, he didn't realize it was you waking him up unless you turned on the lights. But sometimes, he tried to sing to you. Weird, yes, and according to his friends and family he never sang before the incident, but it was sweet, and... lonely. There weren't any words, and despite that it still put an ache in your heart. Other times he tried to massage you, but you couldn't bear him doing that for very long, what with his claws. He clung to you when you sat beside him, especially in bed – he'd wrap his arms around your waist or chest, slinging his legs over the lower half of your body till there wasn't even a chance of escape. Over everything, you found it endearing. His parents found it embarrassing.

He didn't remember when you first spoke. He didn't remember driving you to the outskirts of town just to ask you on a date – he didn't remember you saying yes, and he didn't remember how you made him banana bread when he mentioned that he liked it. He didn't remember that you kissed him, and he didn't remember kissing back.

He didn't remember anything to do with you or any of his friends, or really any part of his life.

No, he didn't remember you, but he recognized you.

Only you.

And to him, when you murmured ' _I love you_ ' into his ear, you were all that existed.


	22. Ahkmenrah – Blue Velvet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request: hello! can i request something romantic with either ahk or snafu or really any rami character where y/n has round dark brown doe eyes? like so dark brown they look black if you’re not looking at them in sunlight? and he’s just flirting with them and he says something nice about their eyes? i have round dark brown eyes and i’m kinda insecure about them cuz they’re so common, and it’s been one shit-show if a week for me and i really just need to feel good about myself

Life never worked naturally to your advantage. You were born average looking – nothing special on either side of the spectrum, with average hands and common dark brown eyes. You grew up poor and worked your ass off to get into a good college on a scholarship, eventually getting kicked out for something you didn't even do. You auditioned to be part of an orchestra, but there were too many violinists already, and you just 'didn't fit the profile'. You tried to be an artist, but no one liked your creations. You tried to pick up another instrument, but you couldn't afford a good one, and the last time you tried to buy a cheap guitar, the neck broke on the third use.

Because of these many happenstances (and the many more, less mentionable ones), you considered yourself unlucky. It was a fact of life for you as much as the sun's existence in other peoples lives, or that the superbowl was too long. Or guacamole wasn't good. Fortunately, the years of nothing ever coming naturally had made you into a fantastic worker, and by some rare stroke of luck, you found you were rather good at physical labor jobs. You weren't strong by any standards – in fact rather weak – but your attention to detail made you the janitor of a prestigious museum you visited twice as a child.

It wasn't a fantastic job, and the poor pay led to having five roommates, but you enjoyed yourself. You tried to do that in every aspect of life; finding the joy in menial tasks, or solace in duty. After all, you got to see wonderful recreations of history in the still wax figures, and learn heaps of knowledge from the many information panels you came across when making your way through the museum. The only truly unfortunate part of your job was the time – right after closing, but you had to finish quickly, as you weren't allowed inside at night. A stupid rule, but the night guard and Dr. McPhee were insistent on it.

They thought you didn't know about the exhibits.

They were, obviously, wrong. You knew, and you adored the magic behind it all. While you hadn't actually ever seen any of the exhibits come to life, you watched the news on an evening where the exhibits broke out, and with your knowledge of the Tablet curse, you pieced the mystery together.

You hadn't meant to take this long. McPhee was already pissed at you for 'accidentally' skipping over the men's restroom yesterday, and taking too long at your job would land you on thin ice, something you couldn't afford. With a hurried pace you finished sweeping the floors in the last room, storing the broom away and moving on to mopping. Checking your watch once more, you noted the time, mentally checking if you would be able to finish before closing hours.

_Mopping the Egyptian room usually takes five to ten minutes, and closing is in two_ , you thought, despair settling in your stomach. What would you do if you 'found out' about the tablet? What would _McPhee_ do if he found out you knew? He wouldn't fire you, would he?

You truly didn't know. He was a bit of a loose cannon when it came to those things.

As fast as you tried to move, the hours of night came faster than you could mop, and the tablet began to glow behind you. Bewildered you turned, watching with your mouth slightly parted as the glow grew to the radiance of the sun. You knew the tablet brought the magic, but you didn't know about the glow – now that you were witnessing it yourself, the only thing you could feel in your pounding heart was fear. A fear that only grew worse when the Pharaoh's sarcophagus began to rattle.

You'd thought about the wax figures coming to life. You thought about the dinosaur. You, however, did _not_ think about the 4,000 year old mummy.

Needless to say, you bolted. Leaving behind your supplies, you ran as fast as you could, wind pounding past your ears as the sound of a lion's roar came from the neighboring hall. You grit your teeth and made for the main entrance, but by the time you got there many of the exhibits had adjoined in the main room. Pressing yourself against the locked door, you watched with wide eyes as the Teddy Roosevelt statue began to talk to Attila, and in that moment you realized that perhaps magic was not always good. Not when you were spiralling into a panic at least.

It took a couple hours of you staring into space before anyone actually noticed you. To your surprise, it wasn't the night guard, or even McPhee – it was a Pharaoh, skin and everything intact. His crown remained polished upon his head, a stark difference from the crowns on exhibit, whose colors and carvings had faded long ago.

"Hello," he said with a pleasant, polite smile as he knelt, matching the height of your seated position on the floor. "Are you a new exhibit?"

You looked down at your clothes. Janitor clothes.

"No," you said, and instantly his demeanor changed.

"Oh dear," he said, and though you agreed with that statement, you certainly did not agree with him grabbing your wrist and dragging you into the crowd.

"I don't really want to be doing this," you said in a shaky voice, but he did not answer.

As he dragged you through the crowd you kept your eyes closed, wary of overstimulation of both ears and eyes. He eventually stopped at the top of the stairs, where you opened your eyes to find the night guard, Larry.

"What are you still doing here?" Larry asked almost frantically, looking between the dancers below and you.

"In my defense I didn't want to be here, I knew about the magic and I don't – I didn't ever want to actually see it," you half-lied.

"How the hell did you know?!"

"You don't do a very good job of covering it up, Larry," you said flatly, your voice still cracking from nerves.

You didn't have very many friends. Your roommates didn't talk to you much, and the life you had outside of work consisted mostly of quiet, indoor hobbies you could do just about anywhere. So, once the whole of the situation was sorted out (with input from McPhee), you took your drawing pads and notebooks to the museum with you, working for the first few hours and drawing into the hours of night while watching history come to life.

Despite your original discomfort of being in the presence of a 100% authentic, come-to-life mummy, you became rather good friends with him. Not fantastic, and he didn't know very much about you, but he was kind and handsome. You hated to admit it, but he held your avid interest. Another one of those unlucky things in your life – of _course_ you had to fall in love with an immortal, reanimated mummy who only came to life at night.

"Why don't you ever come dance with us?" Ahkmenrah (his name, apparently) said as he sat down beside you on the loft, the only barrier between you and a fifteen-foot fall being a stone rail.

"I'm afraid I'm not all that good of a dancer," you said, not bothering to look up from your sketchbook. You couldn't ever bear to look at him that long anyway.

"Neither am I," he laughed. "That's the point."

Instinctively you looked up at him, holding eye contact with his grey eyes for only a second before you looked away, a blush already making its way to your cheeks. He had the opposite of your life – lucky beyond belief. The favorite of his parents, completely immortal, completely beautiful, almost too wealthy, and many, many friends, including yourself.

What got you the most however was his eyes. Cold eyes were already praised in modern society – people loved grey, they loved blue and green. But in Ahkmenrah's society, the one that existed thousands of years ago, blue eyes hardly existed. The mutation for the new color was one in a billion back then, making him one of the (probably) three people on the planet with blue eyes. And now that lucky mutation stood before you in its purest, oldest form, and you couldn't bear to look at them for any longer than a solitary moment.

For some reason, it hurt you. Maybe because you were boring. Dull. Brown in a brown society. Sure, they looked beautiful in sunlight – you knew that. They turned into swirling gold and the taste of chocolate, but Ahk couldn't see them in the sunlight. That made you dull.

Now, Ahkmenrah was not a man to point things out about people. If they were being a dickhead, yes, but most of the time he noted things and dismissed them. But you'd been doing this for so long that he grew weary of the dance.

"Why don't you ever look at me?" He asked, a question that had your eyes widening and your back straightening, alarm bells ringing all over your brain.

"I look at you plenty," you said while avoiding his gaze like a 15th century doctor avoids respecting women.

"No, you don't," he said softly. "Not even now. I wish you would – you've got such beautiful eyes."

Your sketching stopped at his words. At your silence he placed his hand on your jaw, tilting so you looked at him. Instead of meeting his gaze you looked to the floor.

"They're very common," you got out weakly, still unable to make eye contact, but he kept you where you were, in the easy sight of him. "They only look good in the sun."

He shifted closer, keeping his hand on your jaw in hopes of you changing your mind and meeting his eye.

"Even in darkness they're beautiful, voids as empty and long as night," he hummed, drawing closer yet till you could feel the heat off his body on your still fingers. "I've noted them quite a lot. Eyes are a beautiful thing, aren't they?"

"Yours are," you mumbled, barely catching the meaning and insinuation of your words before they came out.

"As are yours. Remember when we snuck into McPhee's office? The lamplight bounced off of them and they practically glittered like the embers and smoke of a fire," he said with a small smile. "And the bright lights in the hallways –"

_Florescent_ , you thought.

"– and the candle lights that Nick brought, those flicker with that same spark within you. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

You couldn't move, stuck in place and stuck in your own head.

"The golden fireplace, Christmas lights – and the light of the moon, a dim, faraway light that can only be admired from a distance... like you," he murmured.

Sometimes you forgot his people were poets and admirers of nature.

"You have blue eyes," you whispered through the knot in your throat. He listened carefully. "And... I can see reflections in them. They're soft, like velvet. Despite everything, they.. you seem... happy. You always seem happy, and your eyes give it away."

"Have you ever kissed anyone?" He asked quietly, and in that moment you realized his nose was almost touching yours.

"No," you answered honestly. Another unlucky aspect of you.

"Neither have I," he said before he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours in a tender embrace you weren't at all expecting.

From both the view of the first kiss and of a Pharaoh's kiss, you weren't prepared, but the plush of his pink lips against yours sent sparks of delight into your heart. He moved slow, taking his time to map out your aspects just as you began to trail your hands over his open palm, memorizing the creases. You were reluctant to part, but he ran his hand through your hair and your brain short-circuited into placitude.

"You have the softest lips," he murmured, hand coming to cup your cheek once more.

You never applied aquaphor or did anything to make your lips soft.

Maybe it was luck.

Didn't really matter to you, because he kissed you again, and your eyes fluttered shut as everything in the world but him faded away.


	23. Elliot – October 1st

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He waits until the last moment and it’s too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote a love letter to my friend but im never gonna send it so im profiting off my misery.

Sad, sick people have a tendency of gravitating towards each other, whether or not they're aware of the illness of the other person. You know this quite well – in your rather sick childhood, where your mind was plagued with thoughts of self hatred, most of the friends you made were just about as sad as you. Looking back, it is a rather horrifying thought considering you were only twelve and so ready to die. Your mother said you were exaggerating, and that makes sense. Things were dramatized back then. But there's a flicker of truth in there, a small part within the soul that truly believed they should be dead. There's no sicker thought than that.

This trait, that part of yourself, carried through into adulthood. Unfortunate, really – that means it isn't just teenage drama, it isn't just your peers or your family. It's you. You look at yourself in the mirror and realize with tired, drooping eyes that it was always you. There's a quote – something along the lines of, "some people grow sad very young, and I know this, for I am one."

Elliot is sort of like that, too. Well, the two of you get on fine – in both life and within your friendship – and you don't really need to talk about it. You're both well aware of the others' problems, but it doesn't need to be mentioned. All you do is sit in cafe's together so neither of you are approached by creepy people and smoke together at his apartment. It doesn't need to be more than that.

Despite that barrier in your head, he's still your best friend. Maybe because he's one of your _only_ friends, the other being an internet friend who you visit every now and then. Oh well. You lead a pretty sedentary lifestyle – you don't need a lot of friends. Just one to hang around.

Still, he does get around sometimes. He gets up out of nowhere, you ask where he's off to, and he says out. Most of the time he doesn't let you come, but this time he has and he's just wandering around. Looking at people and rationalizing their presence, watching the birds on benches, staring at shopfronts. For a moment you think to ask why he'd take such excursions in such cold weather, but with a glance to his peaced out face you know he doesn't have an answer.

You suppose that's just fine – there's something about fall that has you enjoying time outdoors. The piles of golden and red leaves pushed up against the sides of the streets, the coffee signs in front of every cafe, each with their own drawings of steaming coffee, and of course the scents in the air. It's not a particularly nice part of the city, but it has a fair share of restaurants and most smell of apple cider and cinnamon. The taste of pumpkin is also there; probably because you're sitting next to a Starbucks.

People pass by you donned in fuzzy jackets and long scarves. You look a bit like them; you're not a fan of the cold, so you have mittens, a hat, boots, and a scarf. Elliot on the other hand is much the same, as usual, and you don't expect him to ever stray from that routine. You like his routine. It's familiar.

"I'm leaving soon," you finally blurt out, a topic barely in your conscious mind but ravaging your subconscious. It's both good and bad news, considering the trip is for getting a doctorate, but it's clear he doesn't feel the same way. His eyes widen and he looks to you almost incredulously.

"Where?" He asks.

"Berlin. They've got this program for foreign students. I'll finally be able to get my doctorate in linguistics," you say, nodding to yourself. "I, um... I don't know if I'll be back."

"Why not?" He asks in a softer, rougher voice.

"It's an expensive move, you know? And there aren't _that_ many jobs for linguists here.. at least, there's more in Europe," you half mumble, staring at your fidgeting fingers.

He gets up and leaves. Without another word except an astounded stare out into space, he stands and leaves you on the bench. You almost go after him, but he's got that look about him, and you know he's a little lost in thought. It'll be fine – you won't leave for a little while (not until October, actually), which gives you some real time with Elliot, if that's what he wants. As hard as it is for people to read him, you have a knack for it. That's probably why he spends any time at all with you.

You're going to miss him quite a lot. Lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling in your sleep clothes, the clock well past midnight, you wonder if he'll miss you too. He hasn't talked to you since you told him, which you did a good week or so ago now. Guilt settles deep in your chest – he's a man of routine and you're seriously breaking it. Fortunately, it's not really your problem. You have your own life and it doesn't revolve around what makes him comfortable.

You still feel bad about it, though.

About two weeks before you're set to leave he finally texts you, telling you to come visit him, and though he doesn't say it you know he means _one last time_. You get it right before you're about to get in the bath, and instantly you reach for the drain, unplugging it to let it drain while you redress yourself. Something nice – not your sweatpants, no matter how warm they are in the late September chill.

Outside rain falls in great sheets, battering down on the already dead leaves and the many, many busy people. Most everyone you pass by is dressed in black – black coats, black pants, black umbrellas. It's like they're mourning a death, though the only death you can think of is that of summer. You don't have an umbrella in your bag, but there's enough people on the streets with umbrellas and enough overhangs that you manage to stay mostly-dry, till the crowd thins out around Elliot's apartment and you get drenched. Droplets of water run down your fully-soaked hair, falling cold on your eyelashes and turning your nose a blushing pink.

Excitement pounds through your heart at the prospect of seeing your friend again. People at your workplace are nice, but no one is quite as intricate or interesting like he is. Every person is special, as are you, but you find yourself looking for the same traits in all your friends. A sort of quiet person with far too much beneath the surface. That's the only way you know how to describe what exactly Elliot is – well, he's kind. Soft-spoken, usually. Lost in his thoughts. Distant. Compassionate, and surprisingly, warm. You don't hug him much but he's warm, and for some reason you never expect it.

He lights the joint, taking a few puffs to ensure it's working before handing it to you, leaning over the small couch so you can reach. Smoke clouds itself in your lungs, forming pockets of dry, happy thoughts in your head. It all comes out with your exhale, like the freeze of hot breath in winter and the fog of dry ice.

"I love you," you say. Blurting is becoming a bad habit for you, but that's okay. You won't see him for a long time, and you need to get it out, no matter how surprised Elliot looks. He always looks a little surprised. "You know that, right?"

He laughs – he _actually_ laughs. A smile spreads across his usually dull cheeks, and a blush crosses him, pink around his grin and pronounced in his ears and the tip of his rounded nose. You can't help it so you smile with him, absorbing the entirety of his fluster. He's always so closed off. Maybe you help him out of that hole, but it's mostly wishful thinking that drives your thought process towards that.

A cloud of smoke releases itself from Elliot's mouth. He doesn't say anything in relation to your announcement, but you don't particularly expect him to. He's a little odd when it comes to affection. You don't mind it in the least, too caught up in memorizing his little movements and his breathy sighs to bother with the tough things.

So that's it. You spend one more afternoon-into-evening with him, and you don't see him again, not at the airport, not over text or Skype. There was a chance of that – you knew that, but it still disappoints and saddens you to watch the ground disappear, the last memory of your Elliot from several days ago. It feels as though it's already fading despite the fact that you remember every detail of your time with him. How could you forget?

Fidgeting with your bag on the plane, you close your eyes and wonder what things will be like when you get back, if you ever do. Your bag is a little like his jacket – a comfort, with fringes that are easy to fidget with, as much as it might annoy the person sitting next to you. Anxiously you dig your hand into your bag, looking for your anxiety meds, only for your fingers to brush against paper.

You don't have paper in your bag.

Pinching it between your fingers, you pull the paper out, revealing an envelope with your name on it. With shaking hands you tear open the glue, unfolding a note scrawled onto leaf paper. There aren't any lines for guiding, but the words are perfectly spaced.

_(Y/N),_

_I'm not sure if I'll ever send this to you. Maybe not – everything is so unsure right now. My constants in this hectic state of the world are few and most are not good. My job, my scars, my anxiety, they never go away but neither do you. It may seem inconsequential to you – you're likable and you have other friends, but I don't. Not really. I have you, though, and it often feels like that's enough._

_I always wanted a forever person; someone there throughout all life for better or worse. A bit like tonight – it ended with a bar fight, but somehow I enjoyed it. I looked to you and you were grinning and bashing a guy's head in, and somehow that made me smile. It's always better with you. I don't talk about that enough._

_You're the good in the world. I find it hard to believe, much less articulate, how good you are. How kind. Understanding. Creative, open, pure in the best way. You make me want to become a better person, and isn't that what humans strive for? A connection with someone who makes you believe the world is capable of good, someone that makes you believe you'll be alright – so long as you stick by their side._

_I don't write these kinds of things. You know that – I don't like bringing my deeper emotions to light. But you're safe and I trust you; I just hope you understand how special you are to me. You deserve so much good and I wish I could give that to you. I can't give you what I want to give you, but I will always be your friend, no matter what._

_Elliot_

He wrote this a while ago. That bar fight was a year or so ago – is that how long he's been keeping this letter back? Is this why he asked you to come over? ... Is this his attempt to get you to stay?

The plane's already over the ocean. You can't even see the shore anymore.

You realize just a little too late that he's the good in the world.


	24. Kenny – selcouth (sirius)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selcouth; unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet wonderful.

There was something very unearthly about you, and he knew it wasn't just him thinking that. Most people found you interesting – so did he, but he knew you had very few friends (if any at all), and someone as popular and selective as you probably wouldn't want to become friends with him. The most unfortunate part about it all was the fact that you weren't quite _aware_ that you were popular. Instead, you kept quiet and roamed the halls with a vacant, soft smile that had everyone vying to be your friend. To unveil your secrecy, to get your backstory, to understand what exactly made you so extravagantly different.

It was considered an honor to your fellow students if you sparked conversation with them, as it was something you rarely did. That's why, when you sat down beside Kenny during class, Kenny became _very_ anxious. His hands shook and his knees were weak – but you just smiled and greeted him, using his name like you were old friends. He couldn't remember telling you his name, but maybe you'd picked it up. Maybe it was another one of your hidden, strange talents.

"Do you want to learn archery?" You asked, a question that stunned him so much he sat still, staring at you. He only answered when you raised your eyebrows expectantly.

"Oh, um – I... yes, actually," he finally answered, watching as that smile he'd watched so many times sprouted across your lips.

"I thought you might like to," you said, your eyes flickering to the front where the teacher had yet to appear. "I can teach you, if you like."

In a graceful, soft movement you were once more looking at him, your eyes bright and pitch black simultaneously. He swallowed thick, pinching his arm.

"Really? That'd.. be fun," he said with a nervous giggle, fidgeting with his fingers. He hadn't really lied when he said he wanted to learn archery, but he also didn't expect to genuinely get an opportunity to learn it, leading to an anxiousness that wondered if he was scared of failing or scared of you.

"Here's my address," you said, pulling a piece of paper out of nowhere and handing it to him.

Looking over the scribbles he read an address and a phone number, but before he could look up and ask you for a time, you were gone. Startled, he looked over the crowd in the classroom, finding you nowhere. Were you even taking the same class as him? He hadn't seen you in Algebra before. Slightly shaken, he returned to waiting for the teacher, trying not to think on your interaction.

That same afternoon he walked to your house, feeling a little guilty for blowing off his friend to spend time with you, a stranger. Larry understood well enough – he wanted to be well-liked, like you, and for him Kenny was a gateway to that. However even with all that assurance that he wasn't making a mistake, something said that he was doing the wrong thing. Perhaps it was just the fact that he had to climb up a very steep and very long hill to get to your house on the outskirts of town, but by the end of the venture, standing in front of your door, he hesitated to knock.

Taking a deep breath he rapped his knuckles against the dark wood, waiting with fidgeting hands as footsteps sounded behind the door. Through the windows he could see lights, and in the frosty pane, he caught sight of a black grand piano sat upon a Victorian-esque carpet. This was more of a mansion than a house – a beautiful mansion stuck in the middle of nowhere.

The lock clicking and the whine of a door opening caught his attention, his eye turning back to the door, where he found a middle-aged woman peeking through a tiny crack.

"Uh... I'm – I'm here for, uh, (Y/N)," he said nervously, reluctant to make eye contact with her.

She looked him up and down, pausing only a moment on his ratted boots before she closed the door on him. A sigh fell from him – maybe he had the wrong address? Before he could wonder if there were any errors in your address, the door opened once more, revealing your smiling face.

"Kenny, hello," you said, opening the door wide to let him in. He spoke a soft thank you, shimmying past you and into your home, where a fireplace warmed up the living room in great contrast to the chill wind of winter's beginnings.

You lead him to the couch, letting him sit down on the plush fabric in front of the stone fireplace. For a moment you left him there, wandering into another section of the house before returning, two cups of hot chocolate in your hands complete with whipped cream. Handing one to him, you sat beside him with a relaxed posture.

"It's a colder day, certainly. I like the cold though," you said conversationally, looking down into your cup before staring at the flickering flames.

"It's not my favorite," he admitted, his voice soft compared to your own.

"That's fair," you said, smiling. "You get used to it when everything's inevitable."

He nodded distantly, his brow furrowed in confusion. Did you ever even _try_ to make sense?

"So, um... how long have you done archery for?" He asked, reluctant to meet your gaze, but when he did all regret left his head. Your cheeks, pink from the cold, matched so well with your darkened eyes and the graceful, soft way you always smiled.

"Not all that long, I don't think. I can't remember when I started," you said, using a few random hand gestures as you spoke. "I'm assuming you don't have your own bow though, right?"

"Yeah, a bit – it's kind of expensive," he said to which you avidly agreed.

"That's why I made my own," you said as though that was normal. Kenny's eyes widened – knowing how to use a bow was one thing, but _making_ one was something else entirely. "I've actually made a few," you continued, "so you can have one of them."

"Oh, I couldn't –"

"No, no, I'm not doing anything with them. Better in the loving hands of a different owner than in the resentful hands of a creator," you said, offering that trademark smile as you stood, setting your half empty mug of hot chocolate on the side table. He blanked out for a moment in an attempt to process what you'd just said, but the moment he came into his body to find you gone, he scrambled to his feet and followed you up the stairs.

Following you through the hallways filled with photos of long-dead relatives, he stumbled over himself only once, though once was plenty to make him feel embarrassed. Still, he joined you in your room where massive windows lit the whole of the room. A large bed sat in the corner, the wall beside it covered entirely in sheets of paper pinned there, notes and strings connecting everything together. To the left of that lay your desk, covered in the same fashion of notes and sketches. Most of them, he noticed, were astronomy related, speaking of the movement of stars and what ancient cultures thought of the constellations. Besides that and the bookcase full of ancient African artifacts, your room was rather normal.

He followed your footsteps to the corner of the room, where you opened a large, wooden chest stamped with '1847' in golden letters. Looking over your shoulder, he found an organized layer of a bow and several arrows, all of them made by your hands. To his surprise when you hooked your fingers in the velvet loops and pulled, the layer gave way for another velvet case. This time it held a sword and its' sheath beside it. He tried his best not to say anything, watching in silence as you raised two more layers before getting to another bow and arrow, which you took out of its' casing to hand to him.

You'd payed extra attention to this bow – flowers were carved into the wood, flowers and cuneiform script speaking prayers he couldn't understand. The arrows were much the same as the first ones he'd seen, but he remained adamant that he needed to be careful.

"We should work on form first, it'll save your life from cramps and such," you said, pulling him to his feet and turning him around, making sure the large, floor-length mirror was right in front of him.

In his reflection he saw himself holding the bow and looking rather gangly as he usually did, and you, standing beside him with your hands poised delicately upon his shoulders. You had a look in your eye – determined and confident as your hands moved, fingers dragging down the bare skin of his arms before you reached his hands. There you guided him, bringing his arms up so he held the bow in the right position.

"Are you left or right eyed?" You asked softly, still staring at him in the mirror.

"R – right," he said, stumbling over his own words as the corners of your lips perked upwards, a tell-tale sign that you were enjoying yourself greatly.

That made his heart flutter – the thought that you enjoyed time spent with him. He never considered you someone he would date, though one of the reasons for that was because he didn't think you'd be interested in him. But now, watching the way you moved his hips and the feel of your chest against his back, he could think of nothing else. The way your lips quirked upwards, the mess in your hair and the blush beneath your skin. He could stay like this for so long – watching you at his side.

"Here, loosen your grip. Stand to the side," you murmured, moving him so he stood at his side, his left arm extended straight holding the bow. Stepping out from behind him, you fixed his grip, making sure the wood rested right below the ball of his thumb.

"There you go," you said when all was correct, and didn't it always make him so pathetically happy to know you were pleased.

"So I close my left eye?" He asked, switching between closing the left and right.

"That's right," you said, reaching for his right hand and holding it on your own. "Now take the string, draw it back so your elbow is level with your shoulder," you murmured as you set his arm into place yourself. "Don't put pressure on your wrist. Use your thumb."

Trying his best to remember your instructions, he hooked his fingers around the string, pulling back and attempting to keep his wrist, shoulder, and elbow even with each other. When he accomplished that, he looked to his reflection standing tall and firm in a way he rarely ever stood. Almost... confident. He smiled.

"Alright," you whispered, gently moving your hands from his and placing them on his shoulders. "Let go."

He followed your command, the string of the bow twanging forward with empty ammunition. Another bright smile crossed him – he did it, and you looked proud of him.

"Perfect," you said with a grin, patting his shoulders before abandoning him to sit on your bed. "Do it without my help."

Nodding he gulped, turning back to his reflection and holding the bow up once more. With a deep, calming sigh he drew the string, letting it snap back into place. Immediately as he finished he looked to you, gauging your reaction.

"Wonderful. Ready to try it with an arrow?"

"I think so," he said with an excited grin, giddy as you reached for the quiver, slinging it over your shoulder and leading him out of your room.

Down the steps you led him, slipping into your shoes and pulling a coat on as you stopped at the front door. Out of politeness he copied, putting on his own coat before rushing through the open door, trailing after you as you led him out back of the house, where a great expanse of empty land stood unclaimed and dead in the chill. A few feet into your backyard and the ground gave way for a steep cliff, leading down into a mess of bushes and brambles. He looked at it curiously for a moment before returning to you, scanning your useable backyard, where he found a dull, red target nailed to a tree. You led him to the opposite side of the yard, to a marker that sat exactly ten feet away from the target.

"Here," you said, pulling an arrow out of the quiver and handing it to him. He examined it nervously, doing his best to keep position while figuring out how the bow launched the arrow. Fortunately he didn't have to embarrass himself for long, as you stepped in, taking his hand and showing him the groove at the end, where the string would sit. "The arrowhead should sit above your grip on the left side," you continued. "Breathe slow, aim a little higher than your target."

As usual he kept your advice at the forefront of his mind, letting all other thought disappear with his even breath. He aimed, and once assured of his aim, he released the string, launching the arrow through the air. To his immense surprise it landed on the target, and even further than that it had landed on the ring right next to the exact center of the target.

His mouth hung half open, the ends curling into a bright grin that had you smiling and patting his back.

"Fantastic shot," you said with a soft chuckle, your gaze switching between him and his arrow.

"Can I do it again?" He asked eagerly.

"Of course," you said, leaving his side to fetch the arrow and return it to him.

He tried several more times, but no other shots that day were quite as good as the first one. By the fourth-or-so shot he began losing hope, wondering if the first shot had been a fluke, and the truth was that he was horrible at archery. Would you still like him if he failed?

"Don't worry about it," you said in that soft, humming voice that always managed to calm him. "A lot of people get a good first shot and a few lousy ones after that. It's more of a practice thing once you know how to do it."

"So I can come up again?" He asked, strolling beside you as the two of you reentered the house, a quiver in your hands and a bow in his.

"Of course. Any time you want," you answered.

"What if you aren't home?"

"Oh I'll know when you're here. No need to concern yourself," you said with a sweet but curt smile, taking the bow from him and setting it on the steps leading upstairs.

"Um... okay. Next week then?"

"Sure."

Every now and then you'd talk to him during school, and each time it was a different subject. His grades, your teachers, the weather, ancient Rome, the beliefs of the Sandawe people and the mystical knowledge of the Dogon tribe – it was enough to make his head spin. You knew so much, memorized so much information and you talked to almost no one but him. If he had that much information crammed into his head he wouldn't be able to _stop_ talking.

There was a side-affect to your budding friendship – Kenny wasn't sure if he liked or disliked it, but people were nicer to him. While he'd usually be sure that it was a good thing, he knew it stemmed purely from the fact that you were friendly with him, and those in turn being nice to him probably only wanted a way to get to you. After all, it wasn't that long ago that he was the one they were making fun of.

You were a good distraction from it all. Pulling him away from other's opinions, leading him in a direction of self-love he hadn't previously thought attainable. But no, you managed to convince him to (in the least) like himself, and to find the good aspects of himself. Not only that, but the things you'd shown him had also spurred him to find the good aspects of others, a talent few high schoolers had.

As good of an impact as you were in his life, he still didn't understand you all that well. Your stories of your past were vague and coded deep in a language he couldn't understand. One _can_ know another without knowing the whole of their past, but he had a feeling he'd understand you a bit better if you explained things in a normal way. You said the strangest things, too – things about the world, observation of beliefs, careful notes of the human condition – things like, "I don't know if I could ever go back to heaven," and "everyone has a specific length of time on earth. To spend it watching others you don't even know is a waste of time," which was in reference to the beginnings of 'social media'. Apparently you didn't like it, but at the time of the conversation you weren't even discussing technology with him. He asked you what you wanted to eat for lunch and out of nowhere you said that, and it took him a pretty long while to get what the hell you were talking about out of you.

Besides that, you were great fun to spend time with, and always a fantastic help with history homework. Not anything else, though – almost all other subjects completely stumped you. There was only one other class you were rather good at, but it was a college level class, and neither you nor him were taking college classes. But it was still fascinating to hear your science, so he let you talk all you wanted to about astronomy and astrophysics with a side of conspiracies.

"I've mentioned this before," you said, fidgeting in front of your corkboard as you flitted around the room, piecing together a story Kenny could hardly understand, "but – but the Sirius star, it's one of my favorite mysteries. You know the Dogon tribe, I mentioned them before. It's just fascinating that they could've known it was two stars. Like how did they know that? How'd they see that without telescopes?"

"Maybe they've got good eyesight?"

"But that's just the thing! If you connect this to the Roswell incident of 1947 or – um, yeah, 1947, the skies on that date over Nevada, it had Sirius there. See, I think it's a possibility that –"

Right around there you lost him completely, but he continued to diligently pretend he was listening. A distant smile crossed his face – hearing someone whose usually rather quiet go into a massive spiel, that was the core of humanity to him. Letting go of ones fears just to share something they love so dearly.

"Oh, looks like the sun's hidden itself again," you said, interrupting your own speech to look outside the towering windows in your bedroom. "Hungry yet?"

"A little," he admitted quietly, a blush spreading wild across his cheeks when you took his hand, intertwining his fingers in yours as you led him out of your room and down the stairs.

At the kitchen you stopped, leaving him on the edge of the stone floor as you went to the fridge, opening and scanning its contents. While you rummaged through that, he stepped quietly closer to you. You didn't notice his approach, too concentrated on your search, allowing him a time to watch you illuminated by the white light of a fridge. Tacky, yes, but you were warm. Maybe even familiar – all he knew was that he could stare in wonder for hours, watching your unearthly glow.

Outside, fall had turned to winter, allowing a shallow layer of snow to carpet all the dead grass that originally filled your yard. The balcony, while also covered in snow, had a picnic area beneath a large umbrella, which was also where a long, black telescope sat. He sighed – it felt as though it was just yesterday that school started and you approached him. Now you were finding dinner for him in your house, letting him stay as long as he wanted to.

The two of you ended up settling on a package of ravioli, as it wouldn't take too long to make and was easy enough. You ate together on the couch, watching a children's show on the television till you both finished, setting your plates aside.

When the show ended you stood, returning to the kitchen with your dishes and setting them in the sink. He followed quickly after, curious to see your aim, and watching quietly as you drew two brightly colored mugs down from one of the shelves. It didn't take long till he recognized the steps you took – you were making hot chocolate. Two cups with good cream, better whipped cream, and a perfectly red cherry on top. You smiled bright as you handed him the purple cup, keeping your own pink one close to your chest. 

You liked this, he realized – you liked giving things to him. Bows, food, drinks, and more importantly your thoughts. He wondered if you'd ever given your thoughts to anyone before.

"Can I show you something?" You asked after taking a sip, enjoying the warmth slip down your throat.

He nodded, following you when you left, taking him to the backdoor where the two of you slipped on your shoes, opened the glass door, and stood beneath the umbrella. Setting your cup down on the table, you uncovered the telescope, moving the three tall legs into the snow to see past the umbrella's cover. He set his own mug down, coming to stand beside you in the pitch dark of night. All that lit the two of you up was the distant light of the stars and the lights from inside, casting yellow glow against the bare wood and glittering in the snow. A chill ran through him – neither of you were wearing coats, and it was the dead of winter, at the bright-and-early time of 12 AM.

"Come here," you beckoned him closer, watching with that soft smile as he moved, shuffling closer to you. You scooted a little closer to him as well, mooching off his body warmth as you looked through the telescope in a search of the heavens.

"I like the moon," you mumbled, a strange statement to make considering there was no moon that night, "but I like it when she's gone, too. You can see the stars a little better. Here."

You offered him the eye, and hesitantly he took your place, carefully looking through and hoping he didn't accidentally change the angle. Mostly inky darkness, but there was a star glowing blue in the night.

"Is that.. is that Sirius?" He asked, hoping to God he didn't sound like an idiot. It looked like there was a smaller light beside the larger one, but he couldn't tell for sure – he just wanted to impress you.

"Yeah," you said with a bright grin and a chuckle, "that's Sirius. Locked in an eternal dance with another sun 1.8 billion miles apart... they love each other but they cannot ever touch. That'd kill them. Sad story, really."

He wasn't sure that was an actual story, but it hurt him nonetheless. Just a twinge of pain in his heart.

"Did you know it's one of the brightest stars in the sky?" You asked softly, staring up at the star. He looked up to you.

"It looks like it," he mumbled, looking up at the sky before returning to you, watching how the light danced in your eyes and kissed your cheeks in a dim, blue light that left you glowing.

"Their dance reminds me of a story," you said, your voice still airy in your daydream. "Nwt and Geb. Geb was the dry land and Nwt was the sky, and like most opposites they were in love. But their love angered Ra... at least, that's what most of them say. He made their father keep them apart for eternity. His name was Shu, and he was the air between the earth and the sky."

"I know you like these stories a lot, but I don't think I can listen to them without thinking about the whole incest thing," he said unprompted, sparking a laugh from you.

"I know, it's horrid," you agreed, still grinning. "But it's nice to know forbidden love made its' way into every culture. Means there's a chance for people like us, that the others might have empathy."

"People... like us?" He asked quietly, unsure of your meaning.

"Boys who like boys," you said, instantly making him shut up. "Girls who like girls," you continued, "those who like both, those who like neither."

"Oh," he finally got out, staring at the snow-laden floor with his hands stuck deep in his pockets. He hadn't ever told you about that part of himself. How did you know?

"Here, I'm sorry," you said softly, handing him his still-warm mug of hot chocolate. He gratefully took it from you. "I shouldn't have said anything. It was insensitive of me and I apologize. You can come out whenever you're ready."

"What makes you think I'm gay?"

You looked him up and down, offering no more than a sad look. He could almost laugh, but before he could get any reaction out of himself, you moved from your place beneath the umbrella to join him beside the telescope, your side pressed against his.

"Happy Christmas, by the way," you murmured, staring up at Sirius just as he did.

"I don't celebrate Christmas," he said in the same distant tone, making you giggle thoughtlessly, looking to the ground before you looked up to him.

He was wonderful, wasn't he? The way he smiled and the way his fingers curled in on each other, the freckles dotted across his skin and the rough feel of his hands. He was rather toned as well, a surprising fact that had little affect on your view of him, as the physical body had never appealed to you very much. All that was important, all that you remembered was the signs when he was nervous, the anxious blush that sometimes crossed him, the beautiful, uncontrollable laugh he had every now and then. You knew about how he stuttered when embarrassed and how he laughed when he lied, and you knew his favorite shirt on you just as well as you knew his favorite Star Trek character. That was love, wasn't it? Being known – it had to be love. To know someone was to love them, and in more than one or two ways you truly did know him.

"Happy Eid then," you said as you leant into him, staring into your hot chocolate.

"Oh, um, my mom wanted to invite you to a party. For Eid," he said, taking a small step away to look at you more easily.

"I'd love to come. Anything I should know about your parents?"

"No... just don't mention gay stuff," he said with a small laugh, making a smile of your own come to you.

"Hey, Kenny," you said as he stopped laughing, calling his attention back to you. "Watch this."

"Watch wh –"

You leaned forward, getting on your tip-toes to reach his lips where you pressed the sweetest and the first of his kisses, catching him so by surprise that he accidentally dropped his mug. Somehow you didn't seem to mind – you just kept kissing him, and he adored it. For a single moment nothing else mattered, and he could touch you without guilt, kiss you without thought, leaving only intrinsic care like he was built to love you. When you pulled back he stayed in that position, his eyes still closed in a dream-like state. Your giggle brought him back, erupting a bright blush on his face as you rested your freezing hand on his cheek, pulling him in for a shorter, softer peck.

"W - wait, I broke your mug," he said, stuttering as he stared at you, waiting for you to get angry.

"No, I made sure it didn't break," you said with that soft smile, and the two of you looked down to the mug.

Lo and behold, it hadn't broken. Another one of those 'mysterious' miracles that happened around you. You picked up the mug, handing him your half-filled cup and letting him drink from that instead.

"I think hot chocolate is sweeter when it's shared," you said, sitting beside him on your bed with the cup placed between you.

"You sound like a hot chocolate advertisement," he said with a laugh, making you grin.

"Just enjoy it," you murmured, kissing the top of his head.


	25. Elliot – Terrified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mental hospitals probably aren’t the best place to form relationships of any sort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst and self harm and general mental unwellness. This is a mental hospital after all. There is also smut but it’s still gender neutral.

God, what wouldn't you do for a chance to start everything over. Never gain self awareness, never wake up the day you turned thirteen, never grow to despise yourself to the deepest corners of your soul. That was when it really started after all – around the age of thirteen, when hormones kicked in and you learned the words you said had an impact on those listening. It was also then you learned you were a genuinely awful person, and despite your many efforts to become better, nothing worked.

You didn't even try to hide the fact that you hated yourself. Instead, your logic was that everyone had to know – everyone had to know that you were aware of how horrible you were, and everyone had to know that you were punishing yourself constantly, they _had_ to know that you hated yourself. But no one likes hanging around someone who hates themself, so eventually you were left alone. After that, you never made friends with anyone again, no one bothering to stay.

Elliot didn't stay either. To be fair, he was much like you in the aspect that not very many people liked him. In school he was smarter than most people, quiet and seemingly rude, and though the two of you were never truly friends, he recognized you years later. In _prison_.

It wasn't really a prison, though most of the people there called it a prison, including much of the staff. But no, it was actually a hospital – a mental hospital, where people with addictions stayed, people fucked up in the head, people like you and him.

You sat in a circle with the other patients, going around and talking about your own traumas and your own issues. Elliot hadn't said anything to you yet, but by the way his gaze kept flickering back to you, it was safe enough to say he recognized you. To your left, the next person stood and talked about their physical abuse. Unfortunately you'd been there long enough that sob stories didn't affect you that much, if at all. You would be next once they were done – and like most times, you wouldn't say anything. Accustomed to your behavior, the instructor moved to the next person, but you didn't start listening until Elliot spoke.

"I'm here for substance abuse," he said, dull and monotone. Nothing else.

You returned to your room shortly after, habitually checking the secret pocket in your night stand, full of unhealthy coping methods that seemed to be the only thing that worked. Sneaking your hand in, you pulled out a blunt, hiding it in your pocket as you stood, heading off to the bathroom. On the way you passed Elliot, who by some remote chance noticed your hand fidgeting with the blunt through the material of your sweatshirt. He stopped you right before you reached the unisex bathroom.

"What's in your pocket?" He asked quietly, wary of any passerby.

"Weed," you answered truthfully.

"Can I join?" He asked, fidgeting. You nodded, and he followed you, the both of you sneaking silently into the bathroom.

Pulling out your lighter, you pulled on the starter, a flame burning at the end of the blunt. Once it began to smoke you tucked it away, taking your first drag as a sense of calm came over you. You handed it to Elliot.

"Maybe our school fucked us up," he muttered, letting smoke fall with his words, "that's why we're both here."

"Nah," you said, staring up at the ceiling. "I fucked myself up, all on my own."

He chuckled.

After that, he stuck with you a little bit. You understood why – you're practically the dealer of the hospital, getting your stash from a man on the outside who visited you every now and then. In return he could stay in your apartment, as long as he kept it clean enough. Didn't really matter to you anyway, since you weren't about to get out anytime soon, and you had quite a lot of money saved up.

Sometimes Elliot visited your room, and on one such afternoon you felt so heavy with dread that once more you reached into that hidden pocket, pulling out a pocket knife, the only sharp object you could sneak in. In plain view of him you dug it into your skin, feeling nothing. You used to feel something – pain, excitement, adrenaline, but now it's such a common occurrence that it's just another day. Another mindless task. Elliot didn't agree, not by the way his eyes widened.

In a swift movement he snatched the pocket knife from you, putting the knife back into the body and shoving it into his own pocket.

"What the fuck are you doing," he gritted out, scolding you.

"What are you gonna do about it? Tell the doctors? Fuck off," you said, shoving his leg with your foot.

He swore, either to you or himself before leaving, taking your pocket knife with him.

The next thing you got your hands on was a thick sewing needle. It was strong, and the slide into your skin wasn't an easy one, but it was new. Almost exciting. At least you now knew not to do it in front of Elliot; he probably had a thing about blood.

Eventually he found out, though the circumstances sure were, if there was a word to describe it, odd. Odd didn't encapsulate the whole of the experience, but you could think of nothing else to call it.

It's one of those sessions in the bathroom, exhaling smoke and watching the haze slowly disappear into the fan before one of you took another hit. The blunt in your hand was beginning to fade, the very end of it scrunched between your fingers. It was at that point that he stepped close to you, invading your personal space so harshly that the blunt dropped from you and smoldered on the white-tile floor. His chest pressed to yours, his gaze dropped to your lips, where the remnants of your last breath left, laced grey and smelling thick with weed. You tried to back up to get your heartbeat under control, but you were already pressed up against the sink.

Grabbing a fist of your shirt in his hand he pulled you forward, kissing you warm and harsh, and it's a thrill more exciting than the cuts and the needles. For a moment you felt like you were living, like you hadn't wasted so much of your life hating everything. His lips moved frantically against yours, hands gripping your hair and tugging, hips nearly grinding into yours.

You were surprised, to say the least. He wasn't ever the type to enjoy sexual stuff, at least not to your knowledge of what he shared with you, and he never liked to be touched. So while you were quite confused, it wasn't all that unwelcome. He was nice enough and his eyes were pretty, and when he hummed, the vibrations passing into you, you could feel your knees go weak.

It would've been a perfect day, a perfect smoke session if he hadn't wanted to go further. Instead he pulled at your shirt, tugging to try and rid you of the bright white fabric, forcing it over your head and tossing it into a corner of the room. Without thought you tried to continue, but a gasp left him and he stepped back.

Looking down, you remembered your torso dotted with small scabs from the needle, bruises coloring your skin dark purple and yellow. You weren't even scared of him noticing. No, the only thought in your head was _fuck, I'm not gonna get more kisses_ , instead of what it should've been, which was more along the lines of _fuck, Elliot caught my horrendous act._

"You really fucking hate yourself, don't you?" He asked, taking another step back till he hit the wall behind him.

"Never said I didn't," you said dully. "Does this mean we can't fuck?"

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You have no morality. Maybe you should hate yourself – you don't fucking care about anyone but you. Stuck in your own goddamn world."

He left and you broke down crying, sitting on the bathroom floor with your knees held tight against your chest. You told yourself all of those things – you already knew you were self centered, that you didn't care about other people, that you always said and did the wrong thing, but it always hurt. It always would, and the only thing to ever dull it was drugs and sharp objects. Right then you didn't have your needle, and you didn't feel like getting it, so instead you found your lighter and burnt scars into your skin.

For the next couple days you laid in bed, unmoving save for your breath. Staring at the wall. Hunger gnawing. You didn't deserve food, nor to breathe, though you continued doing the latter. Sometimes you'd forget to breathe, but it never lasted long. You wished it lasted longer.

In the night, before lockdown, he snuck into your room when he thought you were sleeping. He rifled through your belongings, searching for a while before he stood and made his way to the door. You watched from your bed, watching as his fingers curl around your needle and your lighter, watching as he left and closed the door behind him.

It took a little while but you found the energy to confront him, dragging your body out of bed and meeting him in the courtyard, where he spent hours watching birds and squirrels in the trees and fields. He sat on one of the wooden benches beside the water fountain, and you sat beside him.

"I want my stuff back," you said plainly, unsure of how else to put it.

"I want you to stop," he said in return.

With both of you at an impasse, you sat in silence for a while, contemplating how you could either get your things back or get new ones. Your dealer wouldn't be visiting you for another month, but when he did you could ask for another pocket knife. That whole process would take two months – far too long for you. You needed it _now_. The only way you were hurting yourself was through starvation, and while it could bring some fantastic pain (and a few fainting sessions) it wasn't enough.

"Elliot, please," you tried once more.

Nothing.

"You do it then," you suggested, something that pulled his concentration away from the black squirrel to you. "You hurt me if you want to control it so badly."

"Are you seriously asking me to cut you up?"

"Please," you said softly, your voice cracking with need. Scooting closer to him you rested your hand on his thigh, high enough that his heat is embarrassingly obvious, while you put your chin on his shoulder, nuzzling into his neck with your nose, lips barely brushing his skin. He froze.

"There's cameras," he gritted out.

His discomfort was obvious, but you didn't care all that much. He wanted you for some reason, whether it was sexual or romantic, and you could use that against him. But you didn't really want to do that with him in broad daylight, so you stopped, instead resting your head against his shoulder and intertwining your fingers in his.

He found you at midnight, sneaking in and taking your hand. Your room wouldn't do – there were cameras. The only place without cameras was the bathroom, so like many times before he led you there, locking the door behind the two of you once you entered.

"You're a damn brat, I hope you know that," Elliot growled as he stepped into your space, his hand coming to cradle your jaw, almost like he cared about you. Like you might've been worth his time. It didn't last, of course – the next moment his hand moved to your hair, yanking as he kissed you so fiercely you could feel everything in your body tense up.

A moan fell from you as he ground his hips into you once more, helpless and needy in a way you only felt from your knives. His heat melded with yours, pushing and grinding, pulling from you an excitement that burned through your veins.

"You really wanna feel something?" He asked, breathing heavy against your bare neck as he began to fumble with your pants, his movements forceful and curt. Pulling at the knot he released it, letting your pants sag past your hips. He dug his nails into your side, indenting moons in your skin as his other hand went lower, stroking low around your hips to allow room to insert his leg between yours. With one hand on either side of your body he forced you down, making you grind against him. A broken moan left you.

You barely had the time to hold him, to ground yourself in his touch before he buried his face in your neck, biting so hard you could feel blood dripping down your collarbones. Shocked from the adrenaline your mouth hung open, the softest of whimpers falling between you.

"Come on, baby," he mumbled, once more pushing you down on his leg as he began to leave kisses in a trail up to your cheek. "I want you to grind on me."

"What?" You asked weakly, still caught up in the fact that this was an actual thing that was happening. God, the pain felt sweet. You could feel how hard he was beneath his pants, still grinding into your hips.

"Fucking _grind_ ," he hissed out, nails digging deeper into you. You gasped, pained and pleasured as he did so, hesitating only a second before you complied. "That's it," he whispered, kissing your temple when you moaned softly at the sensation.

It didn't take long till he was clawing at your shirt, tossing it onto the floor, but this time he ignored your fading scars in favor of working your pants off you. With his hands mostly off your skin, you gained enough mind to start pulling at his clothes, till both of you stood naked in the bathroom, pressed up against each other in a tangle of limbs and tongue. Now you could see just how you affected him, his cock against your stomach as he kissed you in the same frenzy he first kissed you with.

He prepared you for him slowly, almost caring, though the bite marks lining your shoulders and the marks on your hips said a far different story. With several of his fingers inside you he dug his other hand into his pocket, keeping you pinned with the whole of his body as he drew out your pocket knife. You watched it with a fervor – _your_ knife, and you watched him, watched as he flicked open the blade, watched as he pressed it against the soft skin of your stomach, watched as the bruises indented and blood ran from a cut stark against the putrid yellow and green of your skin. You watched him run his finger over it, bringing the taste of your blood on his tongue before he kissed you, slow and methodical as his fingers left you.

Immediately you missed his warmth, missed being filled up like that, but he replaced himself well, hooking your left leg around his hip and sliding into you with one, smooth thrust. You murmured a sweet sigh, high and happy in all those ways you missed so dearly. Gentle but messy you kissed his cheek and his temple, waiting for the both of you to get used to the feeling before he moved.

As he pulled out slowly, he ran the knife against your skin, keeping the same beat as his hips. A long, shallow cut on your side, droplets of blood already beginning to pool, till he thrusted forcefully back in, squeezing the fresh cut as he did so. You choked on your breath – too much, not enough.

"I knew you'd like that," he mumbled, low and soft. "Fucking whore."

He kept that rhythm for a while – out slow, in fast, before he apparently tired of it. When that happened he pulled all the way out, spinning you around so you faced the mirror and thrusting right back into you, so deep that your head dropped, your muscles unable to fully work. He kept your pocket knife, leaving scrapes and tiny nicks on your back and chest, watching as the angry red slits swelled in the mirror, and if you were lucky, dripped crimson.

"Elliot," you mumbled breathlessly, too caught up in how he felt to inhabit your own body. How he filled you up, so warm and so _rough_ , the fresh marks you could see all over your body. Just what you wanted. "God, El, please fuck me harder."

His fast-paced thrusts stopped suddenly, his cold eyes meeting yours in the mirror.

"Don't tell me what to do," he said, releasing your hip and curling your hair in his hands, yanking you back so hard you yelped. With his other hand he positioned the pocket knife right at your neck, the blade digging into your skin.

"El, please," you whispered, shutting your eyes.

"Look at yourself," he ordered, and you complied, slowly opening your eyes to see yourself across from you. Bloodied, beaten, sweaty, and needy, and plain _pathetic_. You couldn’t even tell your own marks from his.

Slowly he inched his way back in, watching your expression carefully till he rested at the hilt, his breathing uneven every time you tightened yourself around him.

"You really want to be this person?" He asked you, his voice suddenly soft, so different from how he was.

"I don't know how to be anything else," you said. It was true – normal people didn't like you, didn't understand you, and though less-than-normal people _also_ didn't like you, they understood you a little better. That placed you with them. You couldn't be anyone else.

Fully sheathed inside you he traced his fingertips against your skin, every movement loving as he placed kisses along your shoulders and neck. He nuzzled against you – that warmth sent a shiver down your back. It was all he wanted, to be close to you, to hold you softly, but you had to go and hate yourself so harshly you wanted him to bleed you.

"I really liked you," he admitted softly, slowly opening his eyes to meet your reflection's gaze. "But you're sick."

"Get down of your high horse, Elliot," you said, voice rough from your own moans and whines, "you're here, just like me."

"I'm glad I got to see you anyways," he murmured, airy as he dug the blade just a little more deep into your skin, promising blood soon enough.

He withdrew the knife, something that sent relief through you. It wasn't even the dying aspect or the pain aspect that had you worried – it was the fact that if any of the nurses saw you with a cut on your neck, you'd be put in solitary with a straight jacket, and no one came out of that room sane. Elliot though, ever one to obey your wishes cut another line into your stomach, another into your hip as he fucked you hard and fast, just the way you'd asked him to.

One moment his thrusts were frantic and the next he halted, burying himself as deep inside of you as he could before he came, a quiet groan as he filled you up. With your own end reached you looked at yourself once more, across the bruises and the old and new cuts. Small pools of blood had gathered on the sink, dripping downwards towards the drain, where you recalled bleeding many times before.

Your arms shook as he pulled out, a weak feeling flooding your muscles as everything let go. The grip you held so tightly on the sink faded away, and your jaw unclenched, allowing you to look up into the mirror and watch him behind you. He was sorting his clothes from your own, his pants already on.

"Happy?" He asked, fluffing out one of the shirts in an attempt to see the size.

You were – at least you should've been. He'd done exactly what you asked of him.

But it wasn't enough.

He hurt you till you bled, clawed into your skin and bit so hard it broke you. It still wasn't enough, and for the first time you asked yourself, _what will be enough_? If he'd done all that and you still weren't satisfied, maybe it wasn't the pain. Maybe it was you.

Maybe he was right.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, your knees giving out beneath you and letting you crumple to the floor. He didn't rush to your side, but he looked concerned enough, and dropped the shirt in favor of kneeling beside you.

"Wasn't enough, was it?" He said as though he knew, and you nodded.

With a heavy sigh he sat down on his knees, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in, allowing you to rest your weight on him. It was nice. _He_ was nice. He smelled sweet and he held you close, a pleasant weight around you with his warm breath atop your head, and a kiss to make it even. In return you showed affection – it was what he wanted after all, how he acted when in complete control with you at his mercy. You cradled yourself in his touch, let your heart beat wildly next to his, your lips pressing the sweetest and first kiss on his sternum. No one else had let you come that close to them.

He did, for some unknown reason. He let you come close to him.

You're terrified of hurting him.


	26. Josh Washington – Autumn Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re really, really thick in the skull, but Josh likes you anyway. Unfortunately, you’re so thick he can’t seem to make you understand that he genuinely likes you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw, but not quite smut. definitely dirty but nothing like... really explicit?

October he texted you out of the blue, the first time he'd done so in a good half a year. Rarely anyone ever texted you, considering you disappeared from the world the second you started homeschooling, so you answered near immediately. When he asked if you wanted to join him for a small Halloween party, you said yes without thought. He was a good person – at least he was when you knew him, around two years ago.

Needless to say, he changed. A lot, too. He wasn't as quiet as he was, nor as insecure, and you were somehow surprised to find out he'd lost his virginity. Everyone there had; it was just you, cut off from your friends. Josh offered to get rid of it for you, a joke you took well. Little did you know he was absolutely serious. To him, you were an unattainable person, beautiful and mysterious and sweet in every sense of the word, and unlike many others, sincere in the highest.

Despite all those mixed feelings you had for him and the ones he had for you, that evening the two of you walked down the mostly-empty streets at 1 AM. Leaves fell from the trees, marking the death of another summer and the approach of the freeze. Puddles had formed in the street's potholes, filled with mud and the occasional yellow leaf. In the light of streetlamps lining the sidewalks, you could hardly see anything except for him, walking alongside you like very few people ever had.

"Thanks for inviting me," you said quietly, shrugging awkwardly as an anxiousness overtook you. Since you last saw him, he'd grown a lot, and he was no longer a young student. He looked a lot more like a high-schooler; handsome and tall. You were still yourself.

"Of course. You're my friend," he said with a smile, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you close to him. He'd always been taller than you, but now the difference was far more dramatic, indicated by the fact you barely reached his shoulders.

"I know, it's just... people kind of forget me. I haven't hung out with anyone in months. I don't think I've even left the house," you chuckle, but it sounds sad more than anything. "My point is, thanks for remembering me."

"I don't think I could forget you."

He's the only friend that still talks to you, and to your luck, he's the only friend you've ever had that's truly made you comfortable. You can joke around with him, but he makes sure he doesn't overstep boundaries. So do you, and it's a quiet respect, but it meant everything to you. Loneliness accustoms you to an atmosphere barren of others, leaving only anxiousness when you talk to others. Things don't feel so bad anymore – you almost feel... normal. Because of him.

The boy who had admitted to having a crush on you.

_Twice_.

And each time, you were too stupid to realize that was exactly what he was doing. In fact you never actually figure it out – it's only when he's sitting on your bed, listening to you fiddle with your guitar on the floor, when it comes up in conversation. At the time the topic was middle school, a mutual friend who neither of you liked much anymore.

"I didn't think she was so bad. I hung out with her a while ago, but like... not that long ago, you know? She seemed fine then," you had said, rambling as you plucked thoughtlessly at the strings.

"I know, she seems alright but she can't keep a secret. Remember when I had a crush on her?" He said. You could recall distantly – in middle school there'd been a whole kerfuffle about it, but you were sick that day.

"Didn't she say no, then you stopped having a crush on her, and then she said she actually had a crush all along?" You asked, furrowing your brow in concentration.

"See, that's what she told you. Actually, I'd told everyone I had a crush on her because I didn't want to tell the truth, that I had a crush on you," he said nonchalantly, and though you can feel your heart racing against the wood of the guitar, you keep a straight face. A wonderful talent to have in these types of situations.

"Really? I didn't know that," you said, sounding a tad less astounded than you felt, which was still a lot.

"I've told you this like three times. I had a crush on you and I tried to tell you twice, each time in middle school and you just didn't understand me," he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Strange," you mumbled.

But he can't like you now – he's so cool, so popular and so above hanging out with someone like you. He even gets flack from the kids at school, the ones who disliked you from the moment you joined the district. None of his friends want him wasting the little time he has free from school and various studies with you, but he says he does just fine, and you're inclined to believe him. Just because you have no other friends, and he's still so kind to you.

"I don't think you're qualified to comment on this," he laughs out as the two of you lay on his bed. You were discussing hickies – yes or no? He said yes, proclaiming them to be a wonderful sensation, and the moment you said no he began to laugh. Apparently you were very wrong, but you held your ground. Sucking on the skin didn't sound like a pleasant thing to give or receive.

"What, just because you've had sex and I haven't?" You ask, a wide and almost dopey smile on your face.

"No, because I've made out and you haven't even had your first kiss," he says in return, bringing up a point you wish he wouldn't. "I can do it to you, if you want. You can decide if you like it then."

Fair enough – knowing what hickies actually felt like would certainly help you, but that logic didn't stop your heart from skipping a beat. Instantly your parents came to mind, what they'd say if they found a hickey on your neck after a sleepover with Josh.

"I – I can't do that," you laugh gingerly, unable to stop the sweet giggle that leaves you whenever you're nervous. "My parents would totally see it."

"I won't do it on your neck then," he says, rolling from his back onto his knees, his hand on your left knee as he sits nearly between your legs.

"Where else w - would you do it, then?" You ask, nervousness getting the better of you as his cold eyes stare into yours. He can't be serious.

"Your thighs would work."

You almost choke on your own spit. Fortunately, you use that talent of not-freaking-out and keeping-an-even-face, and nothing looks out of place. Silently you nod, letting him pull down your sweatpants and toss them into the corner of his room. You glance in that direction – it's an odd sight, to see your pants on the floor of his room. Anxiety inducing, but... not entirely unwanted. He moves his hand underneath your thigh, squishing at the soft and supple skin as he began to lean down. Your breath quickens – he doesn't notice, or at least he pretends not to notice, and he presses a quick, gentle kiss to your knee. Almost affectionately.

Gently pushing your boundaries he continues to kiss, moving further down to your underwear where you can feel a certain heat growing. The kisses begin to grow sloppy, till he's got his teeth dug into your skin and is nursing what feels like the start of a large bruise. Excitement tingles beneath your fingertips – his breath is on the skin of your thighs, warm and hot just like his tongue, electrifying like the way his cheekbone digs into your crotch.

Now you've never kissed, but you can knock hickey on the thigh off your list of things that make you a massive virgin. He gives you several that night – all on some variant of your thighs, and he's almost eager about it all. You know no one else will do it, so sometime in the progressing night you ask him to do it again, apologizing preemptively in case he finds it odd. Of course he doesn't, and you enjoy three deep red hickies on your inner thighs when you shower at your house the next day.

Every now and then he invites you to hang out with his good friends. For the most part they don't dislike you, finding your company a calming presence despite the fact that you have anxiety. Your facade of chill retains itself, as does Josh's, and neither of you give anything of your activities away. He's still kind as usual, the occasional arm around your shoulders or ruffle of the hair – it's a massive relief to you that he doesn't dislike you after the whole experience.

One day he texts you, and though it's nothing special it does bring about great things. Just a hello – the conversation moves from there of course, and somehow you end up on the topic of kinks. You read off a list of all the weird ones, making the two of you laugh about the sheer absurdity of it all, but there's a few you're curious about. Nothing too strange, just knifeplay and handcuffs, and when you quietly express your interest to him he, for some reason, admits his own curiosity in the subject. Another one of those shocks runs through you – a couple days later and he comes to your house for another sleepover, and in his bag he's packed handcuffs.

He asks first if you're okay with being kissed, and you say no. You're saving it for something special, and though you can see the hurt in his eyes, he doesn't act like he dislikes your answer. You know why it could hurt – the implication that he's not special enough to you, but swamped up in your own anxiety and thrill, you don't have the mental capacity to give it much thought.

First he handcuffs you, forcing your hands behind your back, and as per your request there is no fuzzy lining for the cuffs. They dig red marks into your wrists, but the pulse of the pain is a type you found yourself craving ever since his treatment on your thighs. Outside a late fall wind blows – owls hoot in the forest past your window, but most other birds have already taken to the skies, headed for the south. You can taste the coming winter, but it's dull in comparison to the way he actually sucks hickey into your neck and grinds his hips into yours. You're both wearing underwear, but it's only that, which ends up being a weak barrier against lust.

He blindfolds you too – wraps soft cloth around your eyes, and you let him toy with you as he wants. The power trip gives him a little more confidence, and he sets you on your knees, presses your cheek into the mattress and slaps your ass with a force that draws a soft moan from you. It hurts, of course it does, but you're beginning to think it might be a thing for you. And Josh is perfect for it – he grinds his hips into your ass, running his fingers down your spine before landing another hit that has you worried your parents might hear. A few hickies into your thigh and he asks if you want to switch places. Completely bereft of thought, you agree to anything he says.

Soon you get your bearings, and he lets you handcuff him. Fuzzy, this time. You let him keep his wrists in front of him, allowing him to dig his fingers into your hair as you kiss your own hickies and bites into the soft skin of his thigh, your heart racing every time you accidentally brush against the tent in his boxers.

You're not at the point where you can get him off. It feels like too much, and he says it's all right – he's here for you to use, and he goes to the bathroom to relieve himself, while you sit in your bed with burning red cheeks. You try hard as you can not to think about him, panting and moaning in _your_ bathroom, because of you.

And for some strange reason, it doesn't occur to you that he genuinely likes you, just like he did in middle school. You don't think that crush could last despite the fact that you lasted too, unchanging and just as awkward.

Into the next year he remains your friend, the type of friend that people often mistake as your boyfriend. Neither of you really mind – sometimes you correct it, sometimes you don't, usually depending on whether or not you could get free food for being on an anniversary date. He talks about you with his friend, something that makes you indescribably happy. The simple notion that he's not ashamed of being your friend. To him it's a lot more, but you still haven't taken a hint, and he won't push. He knows you've got a bigger soft side than you show.

In a year you're set to move, and after that, the connection drops. You hardly ever talk to him until, on the first day of college, he texts you out of the blue.

Turns out you're going to the same one, though your majors are completely different.

Somehow, the cycle repeats _again_. You never thought about his romantic feelings, he confesses that he's had a crush on you ever since middle school, that it continued on into high school, but he doesn't let the subject drop. Not this time. He pushes through, even in your obvious discomfort.

"I really can't believe you haven't gotten it till now, but I've always had a crush on you. You're really beautiful, and you're smart, and sincere – you don't get out much, you don't know how rare those kinds of traits are in a person," he says, sitting opposite you in your tiny apartment

"That's funny," you say, still pretending like you hadn't heard the part about him still having a crush on you. "I always thought you were cute."

He sighs in a half groan, an exasperated smile on his face.

"Jesus Christ. You really need me to say it outright, don't you?" He says, mostly to himself, but you still cock your head in curiosity. "(Y/N) I had, and still have, a crush on you. This is me asking you out. As in romance. I wanna fuck you and I wanna date you."

Everything in your body stops. You barely feel your heartbeat and you certainly can't breathe – even the feeling in your limbs begins to fade as you stare at him, astounded by a truth you should've seen long ago. God, you're an idiot; here's a perfect man before you, broken but happy, and it's taken you seven and a half years to realize he's loved you since the beginning.

Maybe it's all because you simply can't believe someone would love you. That sounds the probable answer, explaining your disbelief and the soft laugh that comes from you after the long silence.

Love is a real, tangible thing, evident in the quiet words he says and the movements he makes moving closer to you. It's clear in the way he kisses you – your first kiss, one you do naught but melt into, closing your eyes as you lean into each other. Like all the other times it's fall, and outside the air is scented with the cinnamon of a nearby coffee shop and the pumpkins growing in a lot down the road. Your window remains open, allowing in the chill of autumn as he tangles his fingers in your hair, pulling and tugging and drawing the sweetest of moans from you.

The two of you lie down, you on your back and him hanging above you between your legs. Using one of the scarves hanging on your coat rack, he ties up your wrists to the bed frame, allowing him full access and full control. Just how you like it. You let him take that power from you, feeling the way he grinds his hips against you just like he did the years before. It's almost familiar, and in that way it's almost comforting, but more than anything else it's simply him. Even when he pulls off your underwear and shirt it's him, cracking soft jokes that leave the kind smile on you that he adores so dearly.

This time he doesn't have to go to the bathroom just to sleep comfortably for the night, as you beg for him to remain with you, beg for his warmth the second he draws away from you to look at the bare sight before him. With a smirk too cocky for his own good he fills you up, so warm and full, and though it's your first time it still feels familiar. That tingling feeling he leaves in your stomach remains there, and has always remained there throughout the years. And oh, it feels wonderful – to be at home with someone you've missed so deeply, to have the love of one whose love you have long desired.

Outside you can hear the chatter of students two floors below you, wandering down the street and discussing something quietly. It's another one of those uncertain times, where you can't tell what's ahead of you and can't miss what you've left behind, but all thought of that blurs when he moans right beside your ear, his breath hot on your neck as he presses needy kisses into your jawline.

You'd been alone and ignored for so long, and having his attention was an oases in a desert of loneliness. It's nothing but pure love and relief to find he will remain with you always, unconditional, and warm like the color of the falling leaves that always remind you of him.


	27. Snafu – One Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: hey there! hope i’m not bothering u. maybe a snafu x reader after the war where he tries to impress them at a bar with war stories but y/n was an air force pilot and it turns into a debate of who was more badass during the war? sweet at the end maybe?

It had to be past midnight – somehow despite that fact, you were still wide awake. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t taken your sleeping pills, or the pounding loud shouts of the bar’s drunken patrons, but you did not lag behind your friend. She’d dragged you there, saying something about getting free drinks since she was banging the bartender. Before either of you knew it, she was off flirting with another man (which the bartender did _not_ like), and you were ordering your third drink. Not the most you’d drunk in one night, not even close, but it was enough to give you a pleasant buzz, allowing you to relax against the bar counter and look out across the crowd.

Within the next several hours most of the crowd had filed out, making way for a new wave of soldiers, ones that had just arrived home and were celebrating their life still belonging to themselves. You were once part of that menagerie; the only difference was you had become a marine before the war ever started, and while you were there for the beginnings of the war, your contract with the marine corps ended soon after. It left you feeling apart from both citizens and soldiers – someone who didn’t know the horrors of war, but who was traumatized enough that society didn’t care to love them anymore.

Unlike many returning soldiers, you did not turn to alcohol to fix your issues. For the most part you distracted yourself with work, working and working till there was nothing in your head _but_ work – there was little else in your life besides work now, the one exception being your friend, Penny. She made sure you ate, made sure you got outside and had human contact. For that you will always be grateful.

Your attention wavers from her only when one of the returning soldiers stands right beside you at the bar, ordering a bottle of beer before noticing you, his posture suddenly changing as he does so. His back straightens out a little, his hips a little more forward, elbows on the bar behind him so as to show off toned forearms and a skinny waist. He stares for a little while – you pay him no mind. When he gets his drink, that’s when he actually speaks to you.

“What’s a doll like you doin’ here?” He says, and you almost roll your eyes. What a typical start.

“Keepin’ a friend company,” you answer him quietly, taking a swig of your own drink. It’s not entirely a lie, although you feel you’re keeping less and less of her company the more she drifts off to the side, caught up in the stare of a rather handsome man with a fair amount of scruff.

“Really? You come here often? I’m - jus’ curious. I’ve never been here before,” he says, clarifying that he isn’t _that_ stupid so as to use that specific line, a clarification you appreciate.

“This is my first time. My friend though, she comes here often, says she likes the atmosphere,” you tell him, nodding in the direction of Penny, who is currently in a corner with the stranger. “You’re a soldier, right?”

“Yessir,” he says with a proud nod, “just returnin’, actually.”

You nod absently, looking out across the general crowd before you at last meet his eye. In the neon red lights you can barely see him, the shape of his face against the black mass of people, the color of his eyes against long eyelashes that flutter when he scans you up and down. All you can tell about him is his voice – rough and deep, drawling his words and humming his thoughts.

“You meet many marines?” He asks, and you can already tell he’s gearing up to tell you some horrid stories of the war. Unfortunately, you don’t know him well enough yet to know if he’s going to tell you the truth, and a small part of you hopes he doesn’t tell the truth. The truth is gorey and dangerous and heartbreaking, and you’re not ready to live out such memories and tales again. Not yet.

“I’ve met a few,” you say vaguely, watching the way a grin cracks across his face as he chuckles smooth and low.

“All I gotta say is you’re lucky I ain’t no army kid, those assholes are weak as all hell,” he says, something you fully agree with, and something that has a sweet giggle coming involuntarily out of you. He smiles even bigger when he watches the way you laugh.

“My father was a marine,” you say, coming down from your high. “He said the same thing.”

“He’s right, y’ know… me n’ my troop, we was out on that godforsaken island in the Pacific, hot as hell every day – humid, too. We saw hell n’ back, shootin’ at Japs n’ gettin’ shot at, sitting in all those damn trenches, up to ya knees in mud, and there go the fuckin’ army soldiers, prancing around like goddamn deer. Funniest shit I ever seen, though to be fair, I don’t think any a’ us had much to eat that day,” he recalls fondly, but you can tell he’s suppressing the worse memories. You don’t ask on that – it’d be rude, and it’s not a subject you want to talk about. Nonetheless, he continues. “An you know, you’re sittin’ in mud all day n’ night, you’re gonna get pretty dirty, right?”

You nod attentively. If there’s one thing you’re still good at after your time in the marine corps, it’s listening well.

“So we’re all covered in mud, and they come by in a neat row, with their freshly washed hair and white as all hell skin – I made a bet with this one fella, Burgie, a’ said they’d get so sunburnt after a week on that island, they’d be cryin’. I was right, of course,” he says, motioning with his hands as he told the story. At the end he rubs his nose and turns back to you, watching for your reaction, and loving the way you still manage to enjoy his story.

“So you’re tellin’ war stories now?” You ask, leaning in closer and smirking imperceptibly when his breath catches in his throat. “What’s your best story, then?”

He doesn’t skip a beat, another one of those sweetly impure smiles coming across him as he starts.

“Hell, there’s a lot to choose from. I do remember though,” his hand comes up to his shirt collar, unconsciously toying with it, “this one Jap snuck into our camp, still don’t know how, but he was one a’ those damn kamikaze soldiers, the radical ones. He shouted somethin’, don’t remember what, but everyone went for their guns – I did too, an’ we all pointed at his chest, cause it’s easier to aim that way, y'know? But the bombs were tied to his chest, so a’ aimed at the head. Shot him dead center between his eyes,” he tells you with an air of pride and a hint of disgust. You don’t blame him.

“That’s a good story,” you say with a small smile.

Anticipation creeps up on you as you wait till he’s done prattling off little details, just waiting till you can watch the light die in his eyes as you tell him your _own_ war story.

“I think my best marine story would have to be when I was flyin’ over this active war field, there’s fighter pilots everywhere in the sky, and sometimes it’s hard to tell which jet belongs to which side in the moment. Everythin’ goes by fast, but I saw this Jap flagged plane drop a bomb the size of a whole person. Immediate reaction was to shoot at the bomb, and I got pretty lucky – it blew up midair, and I was far enough it didn’t hurt me,” you say, unable to stop a grin from coming to you when the man slowly realizes that he’s talking to another marine.

“Oh, you’re a marine too, ain’t you?” He says, but it’s not a question – no, it sounds more like a challenge, and one you’re completely willing to participate in. “Where you stationed?”

“I was in Hawaii at first,” you say quietly, and he immediately gets the implication. Although you both now know what you saw, and the topic is in your heads, neither of you explore that further. “Later got stationed at some place in the Pacific. Like you. Though, I was on the ocean, not an island.”

“What’s your kill count?” He asks, and he leans forward just a little bit, drawing closer to you.

“Does it really matter?” You ask in return.

“‘Course it does. You gonna be out here tellin’ me you didn’t count?”

“I didn’t,” you say truthfully. “A bit hard to see how many y’ kill from a thousand feet in the air.”

“Y'ever do parachute drops?”

“Once,” you say. “Did you?”

“Nah, parachute drops ain’t nothin’ compared to the shit I did,” he says, dismissing the notion as if it wasn’t important. Now he’s trying to impress you – _again_.

“Really?” You ask, almost sarcastic, but you manage to hold that part back. “What is it that you did then that was so much more terrifying and dangerous than freefalling through the atmosphere?”

“Try carryin’ mortars on ya back in searing heat, n’ all the while you n’ ya company’s out takin’ a little hike 'cross a whole island filled with Japs,” he says cockily, angling his chin upwards in a motion that accentuates his already sharp-as-hell jawline.

“Wow, a whole island,” you say sarcastically, but he sees the humor behind it.

“Hey, Japan’s an island too an’ they big enough that they got the whole nation in uproar,” he points out.

“Whatever makes you feel better,” you say, taking a sip of your drink.

“What’s your rank anyway?” He asks as he puts his drink on the counter, crossing his arms.

“I’m a major,” you say, and once again the light dies in his eyes. You almost want to spare him the embarrassment of telling you his own rank, but you _are_ curious, and it’s just too fun to let him off. “What’s your rank?”

“… corporal,” he answers quietly, and you have to hold back a laugh. You try _really_ hard, you really do, just so hard not to laugh, but you end up snorting anyway, and you can’t even begin to work on your smile.

“Alright, corporal,” you say, still trying not to laugh. Placing your own drink down on one of the bar coasters you turn to him, curling his loose tie around one of your hands and pulling him forward, practically devouring his nervous delight. “Y’ really wanna play this game?”

“I’m the one who started it, ain’t I?” He says, and you admire his tenacity to talk back to a superior officer.

“What’s your full name and title, Corporal?”

“Corporal Merriel Shelton,” he answers softly, his eyes suddenly stuck on the words that form on your blushing lips. “Ma’ friends jus’ call me Snafu, though.”

“Mmm,” you hum, looking him up and down much like he’d done to you earlier, “the hell you do to earn that kind a’ name?”

“Oh, I’m just reckless, baby,” he says with a smirk, gaining the confidence needed to lean into your touch more. You can feel his hips almost pressed against yours, the feeling doing nothing but making you pull his tie even more, a smile beginning to tug at the edges of your lips.

“Mind showin’ me?”

“Not at all,” he says in the impossibly low voice of his, and with that you’re his, if only for the evening.


	28. Kenny – What Plagues My Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the span of a year you went from nobody to arguably one of the most well known kids at your school, but there’s one kid that won’t pay attention to you, and his attention is the only one that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a ‘gender neutral’ fic with HEAVILY implied male/mlm reader. Quick warning, I do write ‘fag’ in this.

You’ve lived a very simple life - a very common, orthodox, and casually stereotypical life. In fact, you were so barren of any type of hobby or distinction from others that you had hardly any friends, up until you were picked random by a group of teenagers a year older than you.

Looking bedraggled and dressed in dark, grunge-esque clothes, they asked you to join their band, Acid Tears, or Hopeless Thought. They hadn’t decided on a name.

“I don’t play any instruments,” you told them curtly, in your usual soft and polite tone. They still pushed for you to join them, and despite your resistance, you reluctantly did. A year later and you were playing bass in a very punk rock band while not being at _all_ punk rock yourself. In that time you grew into yourself - became a real person, achieved a sense of who you were and what your morals were, as well as several hobbies you enjoyed. Even so you were quiet, and the band didn’t exactly boost your popularity considering they didn’t play massive venues, and the venues they did play, you stayed at the back of the stage.

Your drummer was a nice fellow, tall, with red hair and pale skin - his name was Jakob, and he was fine with sharing the back space of the stage with you. ‘It gives the best seat in the show,’ he always said, and in many ways he was right. There were only two other people in the band, both guitarists and both singers, and they were certainly the most energetic. Jane was the exact opposite of her name, and the opposite of the identity her parents gave her. Naturally, she was a blonde, with blue eyes - typically pretty, with Christian parents who were very orthodox. She changed herself into something else over her years in high school, till she had electrifying blue hair, several tattoos, and usually wore colored contacts instead of her prescribed glasses. Her main job was singing and rhythm guitar, though she usually copied John Lennon’s response when asked what she did. Frankie played guitar, sung backup vocals, had short, black hair, and was the object of many peoples’ affections.

After winter break, you scored big - something had changed, either in your band or in the hearts of your listeners, because suddenly more people were showing up. Ticket prices began to go up, till videos of your original music started popping up online. This continued, up until the point where getting a Grammy award wasn’t something all too ridiculous a thought; the thought of which alone terrified you. The biggest jump of this popularity occurred over spring break, so, your band, officially titled Radio Waste, decided to get together to decide what to do if people recognized you.

Frankie had very little trouble with the popularity, always being the most crass and excitable. Jane expressed her own excitement in the situation, while you and Jakob made a pact on how to deal with panic attacks, should they arrive.

The four of you entered your school at once, you dressed in the most normal clothes you could find, and the other three dressed in their usual, full on punk outfits. Students gawked, whispering amongst themselves, and once one asked to get a picture with you, it started. Jane agreed, then came the uproar of ‘if he can have a photo, why can’t we?’

All in all, very horrid. You managed to escape by crawling on your hands and knees, heading to the cafeteria to wait out the crowd. Sitting alone you kept your hand in your hands, glancing up every now and then, till you spotted someone you’d nearly forgotten about, sitting in the corner with his best friend: Kenny.

He’d never noticed you before. Not that he was more popular than you, no - he was on the same level of forgotten nerd that you were, though he actually had interests. Since the sixth grade you’d had a massive, horrible crush on him that you’d done everything in your effort to hide, which wasn’t actually that hard, considering he never spoke to you. _How_ a crush persists that long is beyond you, and beyond Jakob (once you tell him about it an hour later), but it’s there, and it disrupts all your thoughts.

To your luck, he isn’t in any of your classes, which are now heavily disrupted by your presence. Ms. Denvers pulls you out of the classroom halfway through the period and asks what exactly happened to attract all this attention -

“- it’s not like people were like this before the break,” she says, and though it’s a little insulting, her tone indicates she means the best for you.

“I joined an emo band and it got kind of popular,” you mumble, trying to hide behind your barely-there bangs. A recent haircut made sure your eyes were visible in the most uncomfortable way possible.

“I see. Is there anything I can do that might help alleviate this problem?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll do my best to ignore it,” you say, and she smiles, pats your shoulder, and leads you back into the classroom. Free seating is given up pretty quickly, and the people who don’t know who you are are seated all around you so as to avoid any serious collision.

It’s like a miracle has struck you and the school - everyone’s so nice to you when lunch comes around, warming up to you and trying to gain your favor. Some are a bit more subtle, just asking for photos, or saying hi. You appreciate that a bit more, it’s an honest approach you can respect. Besides your bandmates you don’t have many friends, if any at all, so you sit with them, and stare at the back of Kenny’s head through the growing crowd.

Someone taps your shoulder, pulling you from your trance, and she asks for a photo with you.

“Me?” You ask, mostly because everyone had ignored you in favor of your more eccentric friends during the lunch period.

“Yeah! You’re, like, my favorite member,” she explains bashfully, and a little dumbstruck you agree, helping her hold the phone steady for a selfie. For the rest of the period, you stare at Kenny when you can, who doesn’t so much as flick a hand in your direction.

You come to the (very wrong) conclusion over the course of the next couple weeks that Kenny doesn’t like guys. _That’s fair_ , you tell yourself, but it still hurts a lot, just as much as if a girl wasn’t interested in your gender. For the most part you’ve got your own sexuality figured out, and you’re very loose with it considering how anxious you usually are with other subjects. Your conclusion doesn’t stop you from dreaming about him, and it doesn’t stop your staring either.

 _It’s junior year_ , you think to yourself, still staring at the back of his head through the crowd around you and your band, which still hasn’t worn off. _There’s still time_ , you think, even if there really isn’t that much left, especially contrasted with what you started with.

“So you’ve been doing this since sixth grade?” Jakob asks, eating his home-brought lunch of spaghetti.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I guess so. Never got the courage t’ really do anything about it I guess,” you mumble distantly, forking at the food on your plate.

“You should go online sometime, see the type of stuff people post about you,” he informs with a chuckle, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?”

“(Y/N), you’re really popular. I mean, not as popular as Jane, cause she’s the lead singer n’ all that, but people really like you. Apparently, bassists are pretty hot,” Frankie informs you, delighted as she shoves her own food in her mouth, also from Jakob’s home - the two of them have been friends since they were babies, and they routinely share their home food, something you didn’t really understand.

“I don’t know. I don’t think he’s into that,” you sigh, forlorn and dreamy as your gaze stays direct on Kenny and his friend who you’re pretty sure is named Jerry.

“Couldn’t hurt to say hi anyway, become friends? Ever thought of that?” Jane adds sarcastically, never one for drawn-out romance.

You can’t think of a reply, but you know she’s right. They all are. At some point you need to say hello to him, say _something_ , even if you don’t tell him your true feelings. Fears gnaw at the back of your mind constantly, whispering their honey words and promising his hatred with such a sweet voice you can’t help but believe. Again you sigh, and your world seems utterly, irrevocably small.

Even with school going on, Radio Waste finds time to perform at smaller gigs, and Jakob makes the mistake of advertising your evening at a local club. It leads to a massive crowd trying to file its’ way in, pushing and shoving, even though you’re sure most of the people don’t even like your music. A lot of girls (and some boys) keep to your side of the stage, which is Jakob’s as well technically, and they cheer incessantly for you, till you have to turn around to avoid your face blushing bright red.

Before your popularity you weren’t ever bullied. Maybe the passing comment about being gay or a pussy, but you weren’t important or interesting enough to be a popular outlet for bullies. Still, many of the older guys who _had_ or definitely _would_ have called you a fag were there, and they’re cheering, their cameras and phones held up to record your music.

Jane comes up to you and Jakob during a quick interlude, and mutters to the both of you, “posers. Bunch of posers.”

“Clout chasers,” Jakob helpfully adds, and Jane agrees with a quick nod and swig from her water bottle.

The event continues normally, and you scan the crowd trying to find any familiar face, even if you didn’t like them. It’s not until the very end of the night that you see Kenny, shocking you from movement as he exits the crowded club, Jerry-or-whatever-his-name-is at his side. Until Jane closes your mouth you don’t even realize it’s open and, blushing profusely, you head offstage with your friends.

During the weekend you congregate at Jakob’s house. It’s more of a ‘settle’, when it comes to the location - Jane has a practical mansion with a pool and hot tub, but her parents are terribly conservative to the point that even you’re a suspicion since you aren’t dressed like them. Frankie, on the other hand, has incredibly nice parents who deal with pretty much anything, but their house isn’t the greatest. Your own house isn’t in the picture - your parents aren’t even aware of your band involvement, and you’d rather keep it that way.

Over a late breakfast (the group arrived at 8 AM, bright and early, and it’d taken you several hours to organize breakfast) you tell them what you’d seen that night, and explained you were too tired to tell them the whole story the previous night.

“Well, that’s good, right? He knows who you are, that’s a start,” Jakob says, leaning over his cereal to make more direct eye contact with you, a habit of his you dislike greatly. Only then, contemplating his words, do you realize how thankful you are for your friends, who hadn’t even questioned you when you said you had a crush on Kenny. No judgement from any angle - no gay jokes, no popularity jokes, and no jokes about you being a miserable romantic.

“Yeah, I guess so,” you say, feeling rather dumbstruck.

“You always guess. You gotta take what’s yours!” Frankie exclaims, having already had two cups of coffee and feeling her high pretty hard. You chuckle, but it sounds heartless.

“I think… I need a motivation to talk to him. Like, you guys gotta say ‘talk to him or else we’re gonna’…” you trail off there, hoping for some suggestions.

“We’re gonna kick you out of the band,” Jane says, gaining gasps from both you and Jakob.

“Not realistic enough, we could never lose our little baby bassist,” Frankie laughs, ruffling your hair. You mumble your displeasure, waving her hands away and straightening your hair out.

“What about… you have to talk to him or else we’ll expose you as gay to the presses,” Jakob says, and he’s instantly met by the slaps of you, Jane, and Frankie.

“Or we could do the realistic action: you talk to him or _we_ will,” Frankie says, sounding incredibly threatening, a wicked smile coming across her face. You pale - that’s a realistic and very dangerous threat. You didn’t trust yourself all that much, but you certainly didn’t trust Frankie when it came to someone as… skittish? is that the right word? as Kenny.

“Okay! Got it, I’ll talk to him Monday,” you breathe out in a rush, your voice strained as you stare wide eyed at your own breakfast. “Will do.”

Your friends laugh in good nature, patting you on the back and congratulating you on ‘building a spine on fear’. Throughout the rest of the weekend, your deal doesn’t feel so bad - it can’t be that hard, right? Come Monday, you’re feeling sick enough to stay home, and your mother is legitimately worried for your health when you wake up swaying, and your face lands on the plate she sets out on you.

“I need to go t’ school today. I’ll be okay,” you insist, knowing that your absence would give your friends permission to approach Kenny.

Eventually, you make it - albeit a little late - and by lunch period you’re feeling even worse.

“You don’t look so good,” a boy next to you comments, his conversation with Jane interrupted by him noting your sick expression.

“Yeah,” Jakob agrees, his brow furrowing. “You sure you wanna do this?”

The boy has no idea what Jakob is talking about, and resumes his conversation with Jane, while Jakob assures you that ‘if you feel _this_ bad, maybe you shouldn’t do it.’ You shake your head - if you don’t do it now, you’re going to brush off the future threats with your excuse of being sick. Which, you actually are sick, though you know it’s entirely psychosomatic.

Slowly you stand, getting your bearings when the world spins at the change. The crowd makes a small part, and you escape the groupies gathered at your table, trying not to stare at Kenny too much. Frankie noted it to be pretty unsettling, which you had no basis to disagree with.

Time stops, and your heart beats in time with every step you take (which you take very, very slowly) - or maybe it’s beating a hundred times a step. It’s hard to tell, what with the noise level and the other students and the fact that Jerry is now _pointing_ at you, and Kenny’s turning his head and now they’re both looking at you - _fuck, they’re looking at you_ \- and you pray to any God that’ll listen that you don’t look creepy.

Swallowing, and trying to get a grasp on the concept of breathing, you make your way over, several students’ eyes watching you as you stand at the head of their small table. Jerry - or whatever his name is - is staring at you, eyes wide and mouth open as he tries to figure out if what’s happening is really happening.

 _He must be a fan or something_ , you think nervously to yourself, eyes darting from Kenny to Jerry.

it feels like so long has passed and you’ve said nothing, and you’re just standing there, but only a second of time has actually passed.

“Hi,” you finally get out, sounding surprisingly normal. “I’m.. I’m (Y/N).”

Oh. That went well - no slip ups, no wrong names. You smile to yourself, but the smile ends up on your face, and it’s a charming smile; friendly and warm, and to Kenny and Jerry, they think you’re completely calm, if not relaxed. Your mind blips when you realize you don’t have any excuse for introducing yourself - Jerry saves you.

“I - I’m Larry!” He says, and you internally grimace that you’re going to have to relearn his name, but outside you just shake his hand and sit next to him.

“I’m Kenny,” he says, his voice quieter than you expected, almost dream-like.

“It’s sort of crowded up there,” are the words that come out of your mouth, and you realize your tongue and lips are making decisions you didn’t get to okay. “I prefer the quiet, so I hope it’s alright if I sit with you?”

You look back and forth from Jer - _Larry_ to Kenny, and they look at each other, then you, then agree profusely.

“Yes! Yeah, of course, anything you want,” Larry says, grinning far too cheerily for someone with an American school lunch in front of them.

“We, um,” Kenny shifts in his seat, leaning closer to you, “we saw you this weekend, you were really good.” You smile at him, readying a bashful thank you, before noticing Larry’s glare at him.

“He didn’t like you guys and didn’t wanna listen to your music, so I dragged him to your guys’ show, and _now_ he likes you,” Larry says, and Kenny looks affronted as the truth comes out. But you just laugh, shaking your head.

“That’s alright. I know their songs aren’t for everyone,” you agree, considering you were much like that when you joined. It took a lot of compromises and ear plugs before you began to enjoy the music.

“So, do you, uh, write music? With them? It’s just that you said _their_ songs, and y’know, if -“

“No, no… nothing publishable,” you interrupt him. “My songs aren’t really like theirs,” you admit, gauging Kenny’s reaction while simultaneously trying not to stare at him. He’s fucking _gorgeous_ , shining like a setting sun, like a beauty so long unappreciated that he no longer knows how pretty he is. Considering what he wears and the fashion he carries himself in, he probably doesn’t.

“Not the same genre?” Larry asks.

“Actually, yeah. I uh… I have a hard time writing face paced songs, let’s just say that,” you chuckle, and with the conversation Larry carries, it feels more like an interview rather than the result of an intervention.

“I would _love_ to see some of your songs on an album or two,” Kenny says, his lips in a soft pout as his brow knits together, resting his chin on his palm.

“Maybe in the future,” you mumble with a shy laugh, and you’ve suddenly taken Kenny’s world by storm, though you’d never know, and he wouldn’t ever remember exactly when it was he fell in love with you; but it was just then. A flip switched in both your minds - your dreams realized, his just found, and your thoughts and all your world is surrounded in a hazy golden glow, a loving shade of red emanating from the both of you so strongly that even Larry senses something is up.

It’s not till your fifth house party that semester that he gets to ask your friends what _exactly_ is up.

Over the past couple months you’d gotten to know Kenny a lot better - his passions, hobbies, his personality, his morals, and several of his best stories, many with Larry. Even if he never loved you, you’d be happy with his friendship; being in his presence was a gift previously so rare that you’d forever cherish it. The house party isn’t much different. Kenny is reluctant to go, but you’d asked him, so he went regardless of his own fears. It took some negotiations with his parents, but considering you looked much like a normal teenager, they relented their own worries.

Keeping close to each other you navigated around, him waiting patiently in the corner when fame swept you up and required you play a song on the makeshift stage. The entire time you keep looking for him in the crowd, till you spot him in one of the hardest spots in the song. Nearly missing a note, you don’t even have to look back at your fingers to get back on the right track, your eyes still on Kenny, assuring him you haven’t forgotten him. He waves and smiles giddily at you, and you return a softer version of your own smile.

Eventually you drag yourself off the stage, drifting nearly obstruction-less through the crowd till you reach Kenny again. Talking about the performance and your own energy level, you head over to the drinks, and that’s when Larry makes his move to your band and asks his question.

“Hey uh, guys? I, uh, don’t know if you remember me, um… I’m (Y/N)’s friend?” He introduces himself once the crowd has finally died down a little.

“Oh, yeah!” Jane says, laughing and patting him on the back. “We didn’t forget you, don’t worry.”

“Oh, good. I just, um, I wanted to ask you something? If that’s alright?” He gets nods from the group, so he continues. “Is… there’s no easy way of putting this, but is (Y/N) trying to steal my best friend? Cause Kenny’s spending, like, all his time with (Y/N) and it’s annoying because he’s my only friend, and (Y/N) already has a bunch of friends.”

The band shares looks with each other, several rather sarcastic, before bursting out in laughter.

“No, no,” Jakob says through near tears. “That’s not it at all. (Y/N) is trying to come onto your friend, so no love lost there, if ya know what I mean?” He adds a sucking sound at the end, nudging Larry with his elbow. In turn, Larry scrunches up his face, disgusted.

“Kenny’s not gay, though,” Larry says, thoroughly confused and horrified.

“Huh,” Jane says, and the group goes quiet.

“Yeah, okay,” Frankie says after the long silence, and they break into crude laughter again.

Upstairs, you lead him through the house, hoping to find the room just above the living room. Lucky you know your way around - the girl who owns this house (and the party) is a big fan, and had shown you around the place. The room belongs to her parents, found when you open the door. Much grander than the girls’ room, with a massive bed and closets that go on forever.

“Should we really be here?” Kenny asks, marveling at the wood carved ceiling.

“Can’t hurt more than what they’re all doing to this house,” you say with a shrug, feeling a new sense of comfort in his private presence, something you adored in its’ entirety -alone time with him wasn’t given easily.

“That’s… true. Wanna watch TV?” He asks, jumping up on the giant bed and patting the space beside him. Grinning you run and jump, landing beside him, your legs neatly folded in front of you along side his own legs. A large television sits on the wall opposite the headboard, the remote at Kenny’s side. With a press of a button it’s on, and you’re flicking through channels, deciding which one would be best to watch.

You decide on a sitcom that you’ve seen parts of, clicking through the expansive list of channels, though you don’t know the name or any of the characters. It makes you laugh, at least for the night, till the moon shines bright outside and you’re falling asleep on Kenny’s shoulder.

“You wanna go?” He asks meekly, his voice cracking. You don’t notice, too sleepy to see anything. Instead of responding you hum indistinguishably, mumbling incoherently as you turn and rest more of your weight on him and the pillows behind you. Somewhere in there he hears a small ‘no,’ so he obeys, and turns the volume back up. Not enough to keep you awake, but enough to hear it over the music continuously playing downstairs. A minute passes and you’re snoring softly.

He glances to you, the show forgotten as the topic changes, all his concentration on you. A stray piece of hair falls in front of your eyes, so he pushes it back, admiring the plush of your cheeks, blushing strawberry and squished against his shoulder. For a while, he lets you sleep - the music downstairs is playing a little quieter, a little sweeter, and the fuzzing of the TV is going down. It takes a good hour of him sitting there, too anxious to sleep, before he jostles you awake. From there, you leave, and part ways.

In the morning you show up at Jakob’s house (a Saturday tradition) and they all congratulate you.

“Hmm?” You hum sleepily, still rubbing your eyes awake. “What happened?”

“You scored last night!” Jakob says with a joyous laugh, patting you on the back as he leads you to another bowl of brand name cereal.

“You and Kenny got lucky last night, huh?” Frankie says with a smirk, nodding her head slowly.

“What? No, I fell asleep next to him then he woke me up and we both went home. To our _separate_ homes,” you quickly clear the situation up, all too ready to rid of a lie you wish wasn’t false. They groan, clearly disappointed, and go back to their own seats at the table.

“Aren’t you ever gonna do it? It’s been, like, a million years,” Jane groans, resting her cheek on her palm.

“We’re just friends right now. I don’t think he’s into me,” you mumble with a shrug, starting on your cereal. Frankie pretends to fall asleep and snore. The other two just stare, dumbfounded at you, wondering how much denser you could be before dying of brain inactivity.

“Right. Whatever you tell yourself at night,” Frankie sighs, rolling her eyes. You frown, but don’t correct her, and the subject moves onto other topics. Jane tried to hook up with someone last night, but it turned out he was just trying to get pictures of her naked, and Jakob came home with a mild concussion than no one can explain. Frankie had a surprisingly mild evening, only punching one black eye into a guys’ face, and doing only seven shots of expensive vodka that _definitely_ didn’t belong to her.

At lunch one spring-verging-on-summer day Kenny asks you something strange, something he never asked of you before. He asks you to meet him, at midnight, at an address you don’t know. If it were anyone else you would’ve been suspicious, but he looks so innocently nervous, you trust him with a quick nod and a smile. He looks relieved, and takes a seat next to you - Larry sits across from you both, and conversation ensues as normal.

That evening you find a note in your backpack, from Kenny.

_For this adventure, you will need:  
. 1 Guitar  
. 1 Songbook  
Good luck on your quest.  
By the way here’s the address._

Except for the last line, it’s modeled after a shitty video game from the 90’s that the two of you found on the street. The storyline, animation, and overall execution was so horrid the two of you loved it, and you giggled softly at the memory as your fingers ran down the page. Caseless, you swung your guitar strap round your shoulders and set it against your back, wondering what he could be planning as you grabbed your songbook. You hadn’t ever shown him any of your songs, despite his insistence that he’d love them. But, when Kenny asks you to do something, you nearly always do it.

Climbing out your window, you crawl into a nearby tree, shutting the window back up and making your way down. You know the town better than anything else, and you know where the road is - but you’ve never been to the specific address. As you reach the street you grab at your pocket for the number, but Kenny’s standing outside, giving you a small wave. Letting out a breath and a smile, you jog to where he stands, and wait for his answer to what was happening.

“I, uh,” he pulls his hand from behind his back, holding a journal you’ve never seen. “I thought we could show each other some stuff.”

“You write songs?” You ask, gaping. You hadn’t ever learned this about him, and if anything it excited you.

“Yes! Well, no, actually, not really, I uh, I write poems,” he clarifies, clearing his throat and nodding awkwardly.

“That’s amazing. I didn’t know that… are you any good?” You ask, wondering how he could still look as beautiful as he does in the yellow glow of a cheap streetlight.

“I dunno, I’d like to think so, but I’ve… I’ve never really shown anyone before,” he says, his voice suddenly small and hard to hear. In the distance, the creek almost grows louder.

“Like I’ve never shown my songs?” You chuckle softly. “Wanna trade?” You hold up your book, and he nods excitedly.

You walk down to the creek and share in the delights in the only thing unknown about the other. It’s something ceaselessly private and terribly close to the soul, but you make do in the dim starlight, laughing away your insecurities with care. Bugs occasionally buzz around you but mainly keep in the light of the streets, and the peace of the running water fills your heart with an unfamiliar warmth. The only thing you dislike in any fashion is the fact that it’s a little harder to see him, even if he isn’t any less handsome, you like to note the color of his eyes.

It’s a little hard to pinpoint the color, especially in the dark - but you have the memory of them shining a brilliant green in the sunlight, and turning a cold grey when he cries. You match it to each of his emotions, each sparkle, every turn of the lip that you’ve memorized in such a tender way you’d never forget them, never misplaced for a second. When he lets out a breathy laugh your words catch in your throat, and you barely play it off as your own laughter when he looks right back at you with the same recognition of the features on your own face that you’d never bothered to care about.

“It’s amazing,” you note, when the sharing has finished. “Your poetry is.. fantastic. Really.”

“Oh, thanks,” he replies nervously, quietly, and he presses the journal tight to his chest and hugs it. Your notebook isn’t nearly as nice looking as his, but both are worn with the same amount of care. “Your songs are really good too.”

“Thanks,” you say, unsure of what to do next. You didn’t want to part - it was too perfect a night to just leave so suddenly.

He shuffles nervously, so subtly that you don’t notice he’s scooting closer to you till the cold of your bare arm begins to wash away with his warmth.

“W- d- Larry keeps making fun of my hand size,” he fumbles out, looking directly at you while simultaneously looking like he’d rather be looking anywhere else.

“What? Do you have small hands or something?” You ask, looking down at his hands. They look perfectly normal sized, actually. Then you turn to your own - you could even have the same sized hands, you decide, but it’s something you test. You hold up your hand, palm facing him, and he holds up his own. Your fingers touch and you try to ignore every flare in your heart, every spark in your nerves, and you look at the sizes;

You’re barely bigger than him.

“Ha, look at your tiny hands,” you laugh, even if it’s not that amusing, teasing is a wonderful way to get close to someone.

“Hey! You’re barely over my fingertips!” He says, but he joins in your laughter, still looking insulted.

“Kenny,” you chuckle, trying to calm yourself down with slow breaths, “what time is it?”

“Oh, um,” he grabs your wrist, the only one with a watch on it, and reads, “4:57 AM.”

“Shit, that’s so late,” you say, your mood switching to worried mother, and you gather up your guitar and songbook.

“Or early,” Kenny helpfully adds, earning a playful glare from you. He chuckles, holding his own journal in his arms, and the two of you make it as close as you can to your own houses without having to part.

“So, um, I’ll see you tomorrow? At school?” He asks at the crossroads separating the paths to your homes.

“Yeah, of course.”

You’re reluctant to part but you force yourself to with a small wave. When you have to turn down a different road you look back, finding he’s looking back too, and the two of you smile and wave, and truly part for the evening.

 _I should’ve kissed him_ , you think to yourself on the way home, groaning. The entirety of the story is spilled the next lunch period, and your friends agree profusely with you

“You’re a fucking idiot, (Y/N),” Jakob tells you. “Can he do literally _anything_ gayer to make you realize _he likes you_???”

“I know, I know, I know!” You hiss, gripping tight at your hair. Jane untangles the knots round your fingers and takes your hands away from your head, setting them down on the table with a weary sigh.

“I’m worried about you,” she says.

“So am I,” you grumble back.

Still, your little dance goes on till the end of the year, and by then you’re thoroughly sick of it, and Kenny has gotten a lot more free with his affection since coming out. Jane hosts a party while her parents are away (cliche, but she swears she’s the luckiest girl, and she’s right), and the massive house is perfect. The pool out back lends for a sneaky showing of far too much skin on girls and boys alike, and you feel a little anxious standing in the shaded corner.

Kenny comes round the bend of the house with Larry, and they both look far more like they belong. Larry’s talking about something, his hands moving animatedly around as he laughs. Kenny listens intently, till he sees you, and Larry gets easily distracted by the parts of girls he’s never seen before.

“You okay?” He asks, grasping your upper arm. You shrug - probably, you’re fine.

“I’ll be better once the whole pool thing is done,” you tell him, and he doesn’t really understand your insecurity, but he stays with you as a source of comfort. You appreciate him dearly, and for the next several hours you think of how to show that appreciation.

Night swings around, everyone gets into their other clothes, and the party moves inside. Music pounds throughout the house, and deafly you search for a drink to numb yourself for the next several hours before it’d be appropriate to go home. Frankie catches you before anyone else, and convinces you to try your first shots - you’re feeling terribly woozy by three, and she calls you a lightweight.

“I’m light as hell, cause I’ve never gone light, dark…” you mumble to yourself, trying to sort out your jumbled thoughts. “I don’t drunk because I can’t drink, you know?” She laughs, ruffles your hair, and sends you in the direction of Kenny, who she comments on looking very lonely in the kitchen corner. Stumbling through the dancing crowd you make it to him, feeling the wave of drunkenness passing very slowly away.

“Hey, whatcha doin’ alone?” You ask, holding a cup of water in your hand, a precaution Frankie insisted on.

“Oh, Larry’s dancing, I don’t really feel like it,” he says, shrugging and pointing to Larry, who’s caught the eye of some girl who’s probably too drunk to see, but Larry looks just about as drunk as her.

“Whoof. He’s not coming home tonight,” you say, your verbal filter terribly weakened.

“What? What does - ohhh… good for him,” Kenny replies awkwardly, and the two of you stay in the corner watching the crowd.

“Hey, hey… Kenny?” You say, turning to him. Stumbling slightly you loose your balance, and catch the counter, now looking up at him. “Kenny…”

“Yeah?” He asks, his heart beating fast against your hand, which you just realized is pressed to his chest.

“Come here, come… come here,” you say, grabbing his hand and dragging him along till you make it to some sort of broom closet - you’re not sure where you are, but it’s private, and the dull thudding of the music barely reaches you here.

“What’s - what’s wrong?” His voice has tightened even further, the small space forcing your bodies together.

“I… this might just be.. the liquor, or whatever I drank… but _fuck_ I wanna kiss you,” you admit with a numb tongue, not even realizing your confession, and certainly not sober enough to remember it. Kenny freezes - he hasn’t had a drop of alcohol and he’s perfectly coherent in every way, and it’s not helping him at all in this moment. Instead it’s forcing so many possibilities into his mind he can’t keep track of them, only able to focus on your heat and his thumping heart.

“You’re drunk,” is what comes out of his mouth when he can’t speak.

“Doesn’t mean I haven’t loved you since fucking sixth grade,” you sigh, wrapping your arms listlessly round his waist and leaning your head on his shoulder.

“ _Sixth grade_?” He hisses, trying to help you stand, desperately wishing you’d just sober up and tell him straight out what you thought of him.

“Please kiss me,” you murmur, lifting your head and nuzzling up into his jawline. He chokes on his own breath, his hands going numb as he loses coherent thought.

“It’s not right,” he says, tight and high. “Just… let’s get you home, okay?”

“No, no, no! I can’t, I’ve loved you for so long, I can’t wait any longer, just - _please_ , I can’t draw this out anymore, tell me you fuckin’ hate me or something, I don’t care, just… _please_ ,” you beg him, sounding on the verge of tears even though they’re not really there. Tired, he sighs, and helps you to look at him. His palm holds your cheek, and it’s the most comforting thing that you might fall asleep in his hold.

“I like you,” he admits. “But you won’t remember this in the morning.”

“Then _help me_. Ask any of my friends, I’ve been raving about you for ages, I adore you,” you murmur, your lips pressing against the sensitive skin of his neck. He stutters, trying to find a response, before your hand comes up to his cheek. In blurred thought your fingers trace from his cheekbone to his jaw, reaching his lips and tracing their outline with as delicate a touch as you can manage. You straighten yourself out, no longer leaning on his shoulder, and in a trance he follows where you guide him, till your lips move against his. Neither of you can define when you touch, when it starts, or when you begin kissing fierce - you don’t even realize it till he grasps at your hair and you pull at his shirt.

Breathing heavy you pull yourself away, realizing in a sudden sobriety that you’d just kissed him. _Kenny_ , the guy you’d liked for nearly five and a half years, and he’s moving back into you, his chest tight against yours as he kisses the life out of your mind, until you feel so full you could explode with your affection for this one boy.

“I _adore_ you,” you mumble against his lips, playing with his hair as you kiss him over and over again.

“I think I love you,” Kenny practically whimpers, and you return the sentiment so deeply you can’t help but moan his name, your body begging to be closer to him.

In the morning you recall in crystal clear memory the events of the night before. Frankie is the most surprised at this - not just because you got the nerve that you _finally_ kissed him, but also because you remembered it at all. She makes another joke at your expense, but it brings laughter to both you and your friends.

“You know,” Frankie says, stuffing her face with leftover croissants from Jane’s party, which she’d brought from her house to Jakob’s, “I knew it’d end well.”

“How’d you know?” You ask.

“It’s as I said. Bassists are pretty hot.”

You wave her off, chuckling. When you kiss Kenny at the back of the school during lunch, you think on it - _maybe she’s right_ , you think, _considering Kenny is way out of my league_. But he holds your cheeks in his hands and pulls you closer, holding you tight, out of view of every other person, and you lose all thought of anything but him again - an emotion you can never get enough of, and one you’re lucky to get the rest of your life.


	29. Ahkmenrah – Rolling Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: hi! can i request an ahk x reader fic where reader was an air force pilot for some time and they and ahk exchange war stories? not to glorify war or anything but i’m interested to see how that would play out. thanks!

He hadn’t ever considered himself a survivor of a war. Fighting and death came so natural to him, and to many of the people from his time – simply put, it was as unavoidable as death, and would live for just as long. That being said, your logic _did_ make sense; he was still a participant in a war, no matter how small it was.

“Did you stay to fight?” You asked in your soft, low voice. Every now and then he wondered if that’s what you sounded like when you were alive.

“I was fifteen at the time, so no,” he said with a chuckle, earning naught but a bittersweet smile. “In later years I did, though. My brother and I had rule over our own separate battalions. When it came time for us to make our move against the Nubians, I couldn’t do it. I tried to hurt someone, but it’s hard when you see their face, and you think of their mothers.”

“War has changed a lot since then,” you hummed, nodding thoughtlessly along to his story. “I didn’t see a single person’s face.”

“How?”

“Remember Amelia?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, recalling her flying contraption.

“You drop bombs from there that explode with fire, and depending on the size, a single bomb could kill thousands,” you said as your voice once more turned soft, memories playing out behind your eyes.

It was true that Ahk had trouble picturing modern warfare. The methods that lasted eons were still imprinted in his mind, and as hard as he tried to imagine it, he still had difficulty. Planes that crowded the sky. Tanks that rolled over hills and mountains. Deep trenches and gunpowder. Chemicals and bombs. You thought to show him a movie – something more modern, not from your time, where the special effects would be better and the picture clearer. The first time you suggested it he turned you down, but perhaps he’d changed his mind.

“I could show you one of those movies,” you said, watching his expression carefully for any sign of distaste. He showed nothing – blank eyes staring at the floor as he pondered on the state of the world, and the state of you.

“I’d rather spend my time talking to you, honestly,” he finally said, a deep sigh following his words, “but does it ever bother you? How many people you may have.. hurt..?”

“I try not to think about it,” you mumbled as you stared down at your fidgeting fingers.

“I don’t blame you.”

You never talked much. Not about yourself, or others, or the time period you came from. While you weren’t a reanimated corpse like Ahk, you retained all the memories from a life you lived a couple decades ago. In life your name was (Y/N), but in the museums, most people referred to you as Screwdriver.

Your presence in the museum of natural history was not one that was actually supposed to happen. Actually, you belonged in the aviators museum, where planes hung on hooks, and wax statues and cardboard cutouts waved empty hellos to museum-goers. Due to some error not on your behalf, you were kept in the archives far below the earth’s surface. Ahk had found you there one day, looking for silence amongst the many boxes, and not realizing that carrying the tablet with him everywhere was causing everything to come to life, and thus eliminating his hopes of quiet solitude. You were the most human there, so he sat down and talked to you.

For the first couple weeks no one knew you existed, but Ahk soon introduced you to the others. Despite your reluctance you agreed, offering firm handshakes and curt introductions to those gathered, and giving nothing more than your name. He didn’t really expect you to talk to many others, and you didn’t – your relations with other living people remained quarantined to him, to his word, and to his stories.

The two of you talked every night but for some reason, he knew very little about you. Just that you flew a plane – that thoughts of your sins were avoided, and that you were protective of free ideas and people. What a wonderful friend you were; always listening well, always there for him. Still, he did wish you would open up a little more, but he didn’t hold his breath for it. You were still quite solitary, and he doubted he’d ever learn what exactly you did during the Vietnam war.

On a late winter evening he tucked his tablet underneath his arm, unlatching the door to the basement and wandering down the steps as music pounded from above. As he moved slowly along, boxes of exhibits and statues began to come to life, a few of them beating fists against the wood keeping them in place. He paid them little mind, if any at all, and continued his search for you, in the farthest corner of the first basement floor.

Rarely did he ever come here. Most of the time he took a few steps away from the staircase and you were already there, waiting for him. This time, however, you might’ve gotten stuck in your box, or perhaps were facing some annoying exhibit whose nature wouldn’t let you pass. Nonetheless, he made it his short mission to help you.

Once he reached the box with your name painted onto the side, he halted, the sight of a posterboard catching his eye. According to you, you were the only part of your exhibit – that’s what you told him, but the image of your face was on the poster, accompanied by several paragraphs of information. He looked to your little coffin, wondering if he could afford to leave you in there long enough to read it.

Nick had been teaching Ahk how to read English for a little while now, and it came time to put those lessons to the test. Finally, he could learn about you.

_(L/N) was a decorated war hero who went into hiding soon after their tour duty ended. They never told anyone why, but it is generally assumed that it had something to do with the greatest feat of power they exercised: leading the Rolling Thunder operation. It is also possible that the adverse reaction of the public towards the Vietnam War drove (L/N) into hiding, like many soldiers from the time._

_The tactics and morality of the operation has been critiqued harshly, but there’s no denying the effect it had on both the war and the people of Vietnam and America alike. The CIA privately estimated that damage inflicted in the north totaled $500 million in total damage. They also estimated that by April 1967, 52,000 casualties including 21,000 deaths had occurred as a result of the operation. The CIA estimated that 75 percent of casualties were involved in military or quasi military operations including civilians working on military and logistical operations._

_There is only one existing interview with (L/N), occurring several months before they went into hiding._

_“You don’t see very much, from up there,” they recounted. “All you see is the damage of property. You don’t see the kids. You don’t see the blood. You don’t see the abandoned cribs and you can’t see the shattered windows. I think that’s the part that really gets me – I’m not proud of what I did. I don’t think I ever will be, which is how it should be. What we did was an crime against human nature and I wish it never happened at all. If I had to do it again I’d desert.”_

“Ahk? Are you out there?” You asked, knocking on the wood door.

The noise brought him out of his imagination, picturing you in a cushioned chair, talking to some journalist. He left the posterboard and undid the latch, helping you out of the wooden case.

“(Y/N),” he said softly, his hand still holding yours. You looked him up and down, a confused and suspicious look in your eye. “I… I read about the, um, Rolling Thunder operation.”

Your eyes widened and you stopped breathing.

“… oh.”

“It doesn’t make me think any less of you,” he murmured, cupping your cheek to hold reluctant eye contact with you. His touch was a welcome one, warm and soft, like everything you loved about the Pharaoh.

“I wish I was more like you,” you said in a broken, cracking voice, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat. “You at least had the morality to stop before it started. I didn’t even stop in the middle of it.”

“That’s because I could afford to. I didn’t face any consequences, but you would’ve, and I know you regret what you did,” he assured you, brushing away the couple tears that made their way down your flushed cheek.

“I can’t use ‘following orders’ as an excuse. Atrocities against humanity have been excused with that.”

“You can’t carry guilt with you forever,” he said softly.

“I can deal with it, on my own time,” you mumbled, leaning into the warmth of his hand. “Just… don’t tell anyone. I’ll do it when I’m ready.”

“Of course.”


	30. Webb – In Lover's Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request: can i get something with webb porter where reader is a competing serial killer and it’s an enemies to lovers sort of plot? kind of a dark idea but i got it from criminal minds and excited to see your take on it. thanks again!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: some serious violence! psychopathic themes! gore descriptions!

_Fucking bastard_ , you thought, sipping on your morning tea. The latest newspaper sat in your hand, folded out open upon the small breakfast table in your kitchen. On the front, ’ ** _SERIAL KILLER STRIKES AGAIN_** ’, written in black letters, accompanied by a dead woman’s face.

There were several layers to your annoyance, the most prominent being the fact that you didn’t commit it. They put your ‘media name’ on the front as the perpetrator, but it wasn’t you, a fact that had the police seriously mixing up your murders with those of a man by the name of Webb Porter. That was the other layer to it – you caught him at a bad time, he caught you at a bad time, and suddenly it was a race to see who could push the law furthest without getting arrested. Now he had to go and kill another woman and dump her body in front of the police station. Ballsy move for sure, but not wise. Despite knowing better you still bit on your tongue, already thinking on what you could do in return.

You could still remember your first meeting a few months back. It was evening in the city, and though you promised yourself you wouldn’t do anything on your night out, there was a man who pushed your patience a little too far. So you slipped and lodged a fork in his chest cavity. Fun stuff, really – not that much blood unfortunately, but the bitter scent of alleyway trash did its’ job in intoxicating you.

While you were looking for a bat to finish the job with, you saw him – with wide eyes the two of you made eye contact, a passed out man in your arms and a half-dead woman in his. Neither of you said a word until the deed was done, yours with a drained beer bottle and his with a metal pipe. Blood drained from either side of the dumpster, trickling down into the sewer as the two of you moved aside, reluctant to dirty your feet with evidence.

It was almost nice, secluded in that little corner of the city, watching all that blood glitter in the seedy backlight of a shitty bar. You adored the sight of it, the way it moved and dried on your fingers, the taste in your mouth, the sight of blood-covered hands, the feel of a blood-splattered kiss.

“You do this often?” You asked quietly, your eyes still trained on your body.

“Sometimes,” he mumbled.

You waited a couple more minutes before deciding you should probably hide the body.

“I’ll see you in the papers tomorrow, then,” you said as you moved forward, grunting with the effort to raise the man from his slumped position amongst the garbage.

“I’ll be on the front,” he said in the same soft voice, moving to take care of his own body.

“Like hell you will,” you muttered, but apparently it was loud enough for him to hear, and motivating enough for him to commit a double murder that landed him on the front page.

Thus your little 'game’ began with the only rule being a silent one; don’t kill the other. The thought had occurred to you multiple times, imagining what his blood would look like on your floor, picturing the way he would beg for mercy tied up to your bed. A smile made its’ way to your face when you thought of it again – he’d be so beautiful like that. Still, that wasn’t an option. The only thing you could really do was to try and outdo him and hope it impressed him. Maybe he’d voluntarily come to get tied up to your bed. You doubted it, but kept hope nonetheless.

After finishing up your morning tea and fully reading through the article about you that was really about Porter, you took care of your dishes, cleaning up the rest of the kitchen as you did so. You had no work for the day, leaving your schedule open for some plotting. Just the simple stuff; victim, weapon, place. Most likely you wouldn’t commit to it the same day, but stranger things had happened, and you had a bit of a lust for the squelching sound of a dagger twisting in a stomach.

Your motivation for murder was incredibly simple. Just the bloodlust – pools of blood, the snap of bones, that kind of thing. What you were doing was wrong and you knew that perfectly well, but your thirst overpowered it all. The desire too strong, like a beautiful woman, like the call of the sea, like the pull to bite at clavicles and break the skin. Porter on the other hand, you had no idea why he did it – at first you assumed his motivations were close to those of your own, but there was a pattern in his deaths, one that wasn’t present in your own. Eventually you decided he probably had some mental issues unfamiliar to yourself. Still, it didn’t really matter – all that mattered was you staying out of the police’s clutches, which wasn’t too hard for either of you with the police on a wild goose hunt for the mystic fusion of you and Porter.

By the end of the day you broke the quiet promise you made to yourself in the morning, which was 'don’t do anything murderous today’. It wasn’t _really_ your fault, anyhow; you were just checking out the routines of a woman in the city, she accidentally caught you, and you had to do some freestyle. That meant the switching of weapons. Originally you had meant to kill her with wire around her neck, but with scarce materials, you ended up hitting her over the head with a metal chair.

Dragging her body to the nearest landfill, you hid in the dark of evening, scouring the heaps of trash for something to finish the job with. Something sharp. Your last kill hadn’t resulted in much blood, and ever since that disappointment you had been itching for the sight of it again. Several times you’d even drawn your own blood, just to watch it trickle down your arm, pooling at the base where your wrist leant against the sink counter.

“You’re getting messy,” said a voice from behind you, a low and lilting voice whose quiet words grinded against your head. You whipped around, hand instantly going to your pocket knife before you caught sight of the man, a sigh of relief leaving you.

“Porter,” you said bitterly, sending a glare his way.

“(L/N),” he said, wandering out from behind a hill of discarded tires. “You didn’t even do your research.”

“Thrill of the moment, I’m afraid,” you said as you rubbed your nose, eyes never leaving him.

“I would…” his gaze fell to the blacked out woman, “ _never_ be so.. unorganized.”

“I’m not all that much of a planner. I’m assuming you are,” you said with a grunt, forcing the woman’s dismembered arm into the plastic bag, “considering how anal you are.”

“I’m not anal,” he snapped, and though he kept the same quiet tone, it was the loudest you’d ever heard him speak. Enough to make you turn and stare at him.

“Someone’s touchy,” you sighed, turning back to hacking off the woman’s other arm.

Hoisting the dull ax, you once more swung it down, blood spitting out onto your face as a sick _crack_ came from the woman’s shoulder. You grinned – the copper taste of blood trickled sweet onto your tongue. Behind you, Webb tensed, shivering at the sight of your blown-out eyes.

“Why do you do that?” He asked, breaking you from your spell.

“Do what?” You wiped your bloodstained nose with a bloodstained hand.

“Get… messy,” he said, his eyes suddenly turning soft, as they did when his curiosity surpassed his distaste for you.

“I like it,” you said with a grin, shifting your feet to face him. Your ax gleamed in the moon’s light, his own reflection caught in the dripping crimson, poised to use again. For the first time he took a step away from you. “I love the feeling of blood on my skin. Love how you can warp people’s bones and they won’t cry. I actually tried to keep them alive, at first – but it’s hard to muffle that kind of yelling… hard to hide a live person in your basement. Why, does it scare you?”

His eyes widened imperceptibly, taking another step back as you took one forward.

“I’ve been wondering, just in my spare time,” you mumbled, “why do you do it?”

He wasn’t a violent person beyond that specific urge of his to drown women. You hated that you knew that, but after the amount of time you spent stalking him, you had to know. Generally, he didn’t hurt people – in fact he was a withdrawn man, quiet but polite and courteous. He kept plants and fed stray cats. In your experience, withdrawn, male serial killers didn’t tend to much else besides themselves. So what made him do it?

“It’s the only thing that gives me stability,” he whispered, voice cracking when he met your eye.

“There’s better things to give you that than murdering,” you said with a chuckle.

“Says the one who likes the taste of blood,” he bit back.

“Well, you’ve never tried it,” you said, a sly grin slowly making its’ way across your face. You stepped closer yet, and though his eyes widened further, he didn’t move. “You should. Then you’ll know what killing _really_ is, and you can decide if its something you _really_ want to be doing.”

At your words his shoulders tightened, feet fumbling as he stepped away from you, unable to break eye contact. Before he could make another move you grabbed his wrist, pulling him close to you. Your chest pressed against his, the woman’s blood smearing onto his dress shirt and crawling up his arm as he inhaled sharp, nothing but nerves in your touch. You almost grinned – he was so responsive with you.

Leading him back to the woman, you forced him to stand before her with an ax in his hand. You kept close, your chest against his back, your hand over his and guiding it upwards.

“Breathe deep. It takes more force than you think it will,” you whispered into his ear, delighting in the shiver that ran down his back.

With your help he brought it down, flinching at the dull squish. He hadn’t managed to break any more bone, but he’d gotten through some ligaments, which wasn’t worth nothing considering his horrified state.

“How does that feel, Webb?” You asked, dropping the ax in favor of trailing your finger up the blood splatter staining his shirt, a smear of red leading up his chest.

“Warm.”


	31. Ahkmenrah – Cambridge Ghouls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahk found a very odd group of friends during his stay at Cambridge. His favorite of the six was you, but unfortunately, you weren’t exactly... coherent.

What a stupid boy he was. What a stupid, stupid boy he was, falling in love with you. When he first brought his feelings up to his friends, they even laughed at him; Ahk could hardly blame them. Out of all the people he knew, _you_ happened to catch his eye, an undead being so far gone you could hardly speak.

Ben had called it a zombie – a reanimated corpse, but you looked nothing like Ahk, who was also a reanimated corpse. Maybe the magic of the tablet only fully worked on him, leaving you with never-healing scars and grey, almost green skin. A long while ago you had died and been buried here, on the grounds of Cambridge University. You didn't awaken till Ahkmenrah and his tablet came around. It was an accident you were even alive, but it was an accident that Ahk appreciated greatly.

He clearly remembered the first night both you and he awoke. At first he found himself in a study – some sort of library where a fireplace held dying embers and cushioned seats were surrounded with books. Benjamin – or just Ben – found him there. Ben was... well, interesting. Ahk wasn't sure if Ben actually knew he was an undead Pharaoh or that his best friend was a vampire. Either way, he lent Ahk a hand on telling him what the hell was happening, which Ahk was sure he would've appreciated if he actually spoke whatever language Ben was speaking in.

For the most part, that was the only thing that alienated him from the rest of the group. Not the fact that he was undead, not the fact that he was a King, no. Only his language. It did annoy him a good amount, but his new friends were interesting to simply watch, and he had a good enough time.

His new friends; what a group they were, galavanting about on school grounds whenever the night came, terrorizing if they wanted to but mostly exploring underground chambers and the like. The only full human in the group was Benjamin, who was an actual student of the university. The other student he knew was Phillip, a vampire several hundreds of years old, studying to get his ninth doctorate. Phillip was nice enough – he brought with him two women named Amy and Rose. Amy appeared to be some sort of spirit. Not fully there, simply a pale image of her, wispy and see-through. As for Rose, he had no idea; she had rotting flesh on her, much like you, but she never moved. She didn't speak. Benjamin simply carried her over his shoulder.

Then there was you. You couldn't speak either. The only sounds to come from your mouth were mumbles and hums, soft sounds that were once harsh, ragged breaths to get dirt out of your lungs. Your clothes were in tatters, hanging from you in filthy strips. Though you tried to keep clean, an odd preference for a dead person, your nails always had a line of dirt beneath them. Once bright eyes sat tired on your face, above lips that always remained slightly parted.

That's what they saw. For some reason, Ahk didn't see you that way – he saw a deep innocence in you, an innate kindness that came out in gentle, slow movements and your attempts at smiling. You couldn't quite get it. You kept trying, though, even harder when you finally realized smiling was about more than making other people happy, since your first experience with it was to calm Ahk down after a good cry.

Yes, he truly did adore you. He shouldn't have, considering he had other options (and you were _rotting_ ), but it went further than that. So much of the time spent with you was spent in good spirits – the childlike streak in you had the group going off in different directions every night. That or Benjamin's girl problems.

All this went through his head while he sat beside you, wondering what he could do to help. Last night, the six of you had gone off into the city, looking for a specific booze Ben had been raging on about ever since his trip to Hawai'i. You took your cat with; a small main coon with soft, stringy hair, whom you had been buried with. What with you not speaking any language and Ahk not speaking any understandable languages, no one knew your name or the cat's, which ended up with Amy naming you Crayon and your cat Winchester, off the set of crayons in Ben's room and the Winchester gun above the door.

The frantic search for whiskey took up a good deal of the night, to the point that you were all rushing back to Cambridge, several of you desperately hoping you reached your resting spots before daylight. That left you, Ahk, and Amy sprinting down the streets lined with black beetles on wheels. Before you could crawl back into your hole, you went into a panic realizing Winchester wasn't with you. You tried to run, tried to go back and get him, but it was almost daybreak. Ahk forced you back into your grave before retreating to his own coffin, letting Benjamin do the work of keeping you underground.

Now you were kneeling in the dirt, a small pile of wind-swept ashes sitting before you. He'd seen you cry before, but this wasn't like that; usually you were loudly mumbling to yourself, trying to stop whatever was happening, hands upon your head.

You hadn't made a sound ever since you saw the ashes. You hadn't moved.

"Cray?" He asked softly, his whisper cracking when he knelt beside you. "Are you alright?"

You made a mumbling sound, a whine that had Ahk wincing at the brokenness of your voice. He knew great loss – better than you. Better than a lot of folks. But for some reason, the sting of death never left or grew dull, not even if the loss was of something already dead.

As he stared at the ash, picturing what Winchester once looked like, you shifted your position in the wet grass till your leg pressed against his. From there you rested your head on his shoulder, a long and heavy sigh leaving you.

"I'm sorry," Ahk mumbled, unsure of what else to say. You just sniffed and moved closer into him, wrapping yourself around his arm and hugging him tight. "You'll be alright."

You mumbled part of an agreement, nodding your head.

"Come, dear," he murmured as he moved to his feet, offering a hand for you to take. Slowly you turned to him, eyes empty as you met his, pausing only a moment to stare before you took his hand. "It's cold out here. Can't be good for either of us."

He took you to his library – a small corner of the university where he had first awoken, and where your collective friends usually spent their time. Despite the whole of the situation, Ahk enjoyed where he lived and slept. You couldn't quite understand books, so you had trouble grasping the purpose of the room, but nonetheless it was a sort of home to you as well. Ahk couldn't just leave you in your grave after all.

Warmth hit the two of you the second the oak door swung open, broadcasting the long shadows cast upon the carpeted floor from the fireplace. The sound of crackling embers reached him, coupled with the conversation between Phillip and Amy, a conversation he unfortunately still couldn't understand. He tried not to think about it as he led you slowly into the room by the hand.

No one said a word to him when he sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace, leading you to sit down beside him. What would they say anyway? Phillip was already privy to his little crush but was far too polite to say anything about it. The only reason Ahk knew that he knew was because of the shifty glances Phillip sent his way every now and then. Amy, Ben, and Rose didn't know – as far as Ahk was aware – and thus left him alone to tend to you.

He had no idea if you actually had any thoughts in your head. Yes, you responded to stimulus, and you clearly had emotions, but could you recognize him? Hopefully you did, but Ahk would most likely never know. It didn't matter to him all that much in that moment. All that mattered was to help soothe you, not to identify whether or not you had sentience and complex thought stuck behind your tongue-less mouth.

"Is it better here, for you?" He asked you softly, his arm wrapped around your shoulders as he leant in, lips pressed right up against your temple as he spoke.

You sighed deep and slow as your eyes fluttered shut, leaning into his warmth. A moment later there was a wet feeling on his shoulder, and as he turned to you, careful not to disturb either of your positions, he found a few stray tears falling down your cheeks.

"I know it hurts," he murmured, fully aware you couldn't understand him, "but you'll be alright. I'm here for you."

_Goldie_ , you thought as you sat beside him, your hands shaking and rotten. _Safe_.


	32. Ahkmenrah – Tree Lights (Cambridge Ghouls pt. 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is a little confusing what with being a 4,000 year old mummy without translations, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy it. Especially when it comes to you.

"Oven."

"Off-en.. I... what?"

"I told you not to teach him the words of things he doesn't know about," Amy deadpanned from her chair, turning the page of her book whilst quirking a brow in Ben's direction.

"How does he _not_ know what an oven is?" Ben said, letting his picture cards fall in favor of crossing his arms.

"We told you this already, he's not from around here."

"What, so they just don't have ovens in Bolivia?"

"Jesus," Amy muttered under her breath, sucking in a sharp breath.

As usual, it was the middle of the night, and Ahk was curled up in a blanket beside the library fireplace. Tendrils of warmth licked up his bare legs and onto his face, soothing the ache of cold tension. Ahk, though listening intently to the conversation between Ben and Amy, understood little of it.

Ever since the start of the second semester, it had rained every day. Outside, the grassy fields were soaked in mud, lined by wet concrete and running students. All in all, not the best environment for a man of Ahk's tastes; someone who grew up in a half-desert. Fortunately his time was well taken up – with the start of the new semester, Phillip ended up signing onto a course about ancient Egypt, spending a good amount of time over break to delve into the language of hieroglyphs. Since he got back he'd been trying to communicate with Ahk, and to both their surprise, several of the attempts were successful. A new hope sparked for communication between the two worlds, a hope that Ben apparently adored to the point of buying children's flashcards.

Although Ahk would always be happy to spend his time learning, he worried for you. Just a little. After all, he always did in some way. You could be surprisingly fragile both physically and mentally. There was a time Ahk went out with Amy and Phillip to run a couple errands, only to return to you curled up in the corner and shaking, Rose sat dead still in her chair, and Ben nowhere to be seen. He hadn't been gone that long, but through your incoherent mumbles he uncovered you were _scared_. Scared he wasn't coming back. You had thrown your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug he happily returned.

That was just you, though – a little clueless, incredibly sweet, and a tad helpless on your own. With Ahk caught up in his new lessons, you were left alone, something that always unsettled Ahk. There was no telling if you would be alright without him near.

From his seat at the fire, he could spy you through the stacks of books, curled up in the corner and playing with your own skin. You pinched it, rolling it between your fingers till it began to tear. He winced and looked away. Every now and then you did something of that ilk, something very zombie-like of you, and each time he had to look away. He never tried to stop you, though; he reasoned that you were in fact a zombie, and it was only natural you would do zombie-like things at least every now and then.

"Star," Ben said, pulling another card out of his deck, displaying the drawing of the night sky. He pointed to one of the bright dots, helpfully clarifying that it was about the light and not the sky itself.

"Star," Ahk returned, earning a bright grin from Ben. "Siba."

"No, star," Ben said again, pointing more aggressively at the card.

"I think he's trying to teach you the word for it in Egyptian," Amy said, not even bothering to look at either of them.

"If you have so many opinions on this, why don't you do it?" Ben snapped back. Amy's mouth fell open, offense heavy on her furrowed brow.

With a deep sigh, Ahk stood and left his place at the fire, blocking out the loud argument he only half understood, if that. Amy always took Ben a little too seriously, something Ahk knew to avoid the second he started understanding just how Ben's mind worked.

Sneaking quietly through the rows of books, he made his way to you, careful to not disturb any towers with his long cape. As usual you sat on the floor with your back pressed up against the corner, relaxed as you fidgeted absently with your fingers. Only when he approached you did you notice him, a soft, almost slack-jawed smile coming to you as he sat down.

"How are you feeling this evening?" Ahk asked you in his native tongue, fully aware you wouldn't understand or reply. Still, there was a sort of reaction evident on your frame, a movement that had him believing you understood at least the gist of his words.

You reached over, the slightest bit of color in your cheeks as you set your hand atop his, running your palm over the back of his hand. He furrowed his brow, but the confusion faded away when you began to pet him. You were reassuring him. For some reason.

"I really... I am sorry that you cannot join me, on this... venture. I do wish we could find a way to understand you, too. There must be something in your head," he said softly, eyes flickering between your hand on his and your downcast gaze.

A familiar silence came to the both of you when Ahk could no longer lament your lack of communication without repeating himself. As usual, you tried to speak with your actions, setting your legs criss-cross beneath you as you motioned him nearer. He shifted, unsure of your end goal until you gently grabbed his head and forced it onto your lap. His cheeks turned a pretty red as you did so. Yet he was always ready to please you; instead of pushing you away he made himself comfortable on the carpeted floor, breathing slow as you began to pet his hair.

You began to hum a song, incoherent and out of tune, in the soft, humming voice you were left with in death. Although it certainly didn't comprise of an actual melody, it was still nice to hear. Every now and then you'd hit a sweet note where the tune evened out, where your voice was best suited, and at each instance he fell deeper into your petting. Soon the arguing of Ben and Amy disappeared into the background, followed by the crackling of fire and the storming of raindrops outside. All that remained was you.

Ahk enjoyed his blissful ignorance for several more minutes until your strokes were abruptly interrupted by the sound of an opening door. Heavy boots fell on the wooden floors, alerting all five of you to a large pine tree being shoved through the doorway. His eyes widened as a particularly wide branch was shoved through.

Amy stood from her chair, passing by you and Ahk as she jogged over to the door.

"Ahk," she said, "an'na."

_Come to me._

Reluctantly he stood, brushing the wrinkles out of his cape and skirt before he went to assist Amy, whose hands barely got a grip on the stump due to her being mostly incorporeal. Ben came by a second later, standing beside Ahk as the three of them all pulled on the stump in a single movement. With one good heave, the tree fell into the library, sending Ahk falling back onto his spine. He hissed instinctively, his hand going to rub at his back. The rain-heavy tree, once stuck in the doorway, now rested almost entirely on him.

Now that he could enter, Phillip tip-toed around the top of the tree to reach Ahk, easily lifting the weight off him with his super strength. Ahk didn't know what exactly Phillip was, but he had said he was a vampire – something Ahk knew nothing about. Maybe _that_ was why he was so strong. Either way, it didn't erase the fact that Ahk was incredibly wet _and_ bruised now.

Over the proceeding ten minutes the four shakily moved the tree to sit beside the fireplace, as all other spaces were already taken up by books and desks. Amy helped to stabilize it while Ben rushed away, in search of something Phillip told him to grab, which Ahk unfortunately couldn't translate in his head. Several questions blurred through his head – mainly questions as to why the hell they would want an _indoor_ tree that would most certainly rot – but he found no chance to ask until Ben returned with a box of shiny, new ornaments.

He pulled Phillip aside, watching Amy and Ben hang the ornaments on the branches out of the corner of his eye.

"Why?" Ahk asked, one of the english words he made sure to remember.

"Uh..." Phillip paused for a moment, attempting to remember his classes, "Un.. neteru, ni peta."

_For.. the god, in heaven._

"Ah," Ahk said wistfully, nodding in understanding.

Phillip smiled brightly at the successful communication before motioning him over, handing him a bright red ornament and a tiny metal hook. He glanced at his friends, each of them entranced with this strange worship, before he hung up his first ornament. Hopefully this wouldn't induct him into their religion.

"No," Amy said, pausing Ahk's movements, "make it – or, uh.. ieri nefer."

_Make it pretty._

Ah. So this was an aesthetic thing.

With ornament in hand, he looked all around the tree, wondering where it would best fit in relation to both the branches and the other ornaments. Most of the little things hung on the tree were dolls of sorts – ceramic statuettes of animals and instruments, even humans.

A hand on his back startled his posture upright, eyes widening in surprise as he inhaled sharply. Another joined it, and warm fingers spread out to encircle his waist, followed by a cheek against his shoulder.

"Oh, Crayon," he breathed out, returning to his native language, "you startled me."

"Mmm," you mumbled, squeezing him tighter against you as your perpetually-tired eyes fluttered shut.

"Do you want to help out?" He asked softly, attempting to turn round to face you. Your grip proved his task difficult, but with a quick stop to hang the ornament, he was soon met with your head on his chest. A blooming feeling in his stomach spread warmth into his face. Of course it'd be you to bring a blushing warmth to his cheeks – not freezing rain nor well-lit fireplace. Just you.

Amy, currently floating near the top of the tree, held one of the many ornament boxes in her hand. Ahk only noted this once she began to drift down, holding out the box for Ahk to take another ornament. This time he took two – a bearded man in a red suit and a brightly colored icicle – and handed one to you. A small sigh left you, a clear indicator of your reluctance to separate from Ahk, but with his encouragement you did just so.

Together, the six of you (minus Rose, who was napping in her chair) set up all the ornaments on the tree, stringing up garland and fairy lights round the branches to let them glitter in the firelight. With Ben's attentive care, the fire was still roaring away in its' brick house, interrupted only by the worsening storm outside the windows.

As Ahk took your hand, Amy set out the record player and began the first of many songs he would most likely never understand. He could still enjoy them, though – there was a certain charm to them, a happiness clear in the garbled words and bright tune. Whether or not you understood them was a mystery, but you most definitely recognized them. Two seconds into the third song you began to hum the melody; a little out of tune as always, but still clearly the soft song on the record player.

Once again the world began to fade out a little, being replaced with your clouded eyes and sleepy hum. You sat in front of the fire now, leaned against the edge of a bookcase with a pillow behind you, and Ahk at your side. He scooted close to you – impossibly close – till your sides were pressed tight together and he could rest his head on your shoulder. A smile tugged at your lips as the quietest of giggles left you.

Ahk stared at the decorated tree, enjoying the strangely intimate happiness in his heart placed there by you and, undeniably, your group of friends. It was an odd celebration, but he'd be willing to be that if he started any of his own festivals, they'd be just as confused.

He tapped at Phillip's leg, drawing his attention away from his conversation with Amy.

"Ren?" Ahk asked, pointing to the tree again.

_Name?_

"Christmas," Phillip answered with a smile before promptly returning to Amy.

He turned up to you, shifting ever closer to your willing touch. There he nuzzled into you, his nose pressed up against your jaw as you smiled, staring at your intertwined hands.

"Happy Chriss-mas, Cray," he mumbled, his eyes drifting slowly shut.


	33. Ahkmenrah – The Ivory Haunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His face is engrained into your head but his name is nowhere. Where does he exist? Why are you so obsessed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is strangely creepy and i dont know why. its not what i meant to do but i think its cool anyway.

There's this carving – more of a bust or sculpture – that has your mind twisted every which way. It's a stupid thing, really, but you can't get his expression out of your head, and thus it haunts your waking and sleeping hours. The style is Egyptian, you think. He's wearing a crown on his head, one that you've seen in a couple museums before, and he has an absent smile on his face. While you scroll through the endless amount of photos of ancient Egyptian statues online, you note that it's an all too common expression.

At this point you can't even recall where you first saw it. Could've been through the endless internet surfing or the many museums you visited in your travels, but at the end of the day you're stumped. What was his name? Where did you meet him?

It's clear as day. His alabaster skin. He looks straight at you with empty eyes, the irises having eroded many years ago in the hot sahara sun. His nose has long fallen off, leaving behind a jagged scar that drags from his brow down to his lips, where that haunting smile sits so easily. They're full, his lips – sweet, and soft, even for stone. At each end are little dips, showcasing the slight smile. His chin is a little big, but it makes way for the sharp contrast of his jawline. He has cheekbones – mostly hidden behind the crown – and his ears are a little large. The trait that draws your attention each time is his eyes. Blank. Like they had truly been staring at the world for thousands of years.

You don't get out much anymore, not since the restrictions were put in place. There are moments, especially in the dead of night, in which you want so desperately to leave your tiny apartment, but the curfew states otherwise. Policemen and government workers roam the streets and you'd rather not get into a tussle over something so small as an urge.

Still, you stare outside your window, wondering why it feels like you're suffocating. This is how you spend a lot of your time nowadays, staring at the streets. There's hardly any cars out, and the sidewalks are barren, a sight you'd seen only once before during the original quarantine. London is not a quiet city. It's quite the opposite, and to see it muted is in the least upsetting.

Your job is... easy. Considering the state of the world, you're incredibly lucky, retaining your job and keeping away from the outside. You also get a lot of free time. Usually you'd spend it in front of a television, or in a good book, but now it's in front of your computer screen. The typing marker flashes in front of you, placing behind it the clear words you've searched at least a hundred times by now.

**ANCIENT EGYPTIAN BUSTS**

By now you know what the first images are going to be. Nefertiti, mostly – her bust is by far the most famous. Then there's of course Akhenaten with his elongated skull, followed by several advertisements for Kemetic worship.

You don't know much about Egyptian history. Or, at least you didn't use to. Now you recognize the faces, though rarely do you ever remember the names of the many forgotten dead. You're just looking for one – one name, one bust, one dead man.

He's nowhere, not in the books you buy or the articles you read. When you sign up for an online course of ancient Egyptian history, you expect to see his face in a textbook, but he's not there. Sometimes it feels like you're the only one who remembers him, which is funny – you don't even know him. Either way it's a way to occupy the time, since you have so much of it lately.

The British Museum is reopening. There's a whole thing about COVID, of course, and the only way to enter is to get tickets online. Only a handful of people are allowed inside the museum at once, and since you don't hear about it until later, you are set to wait a month and a half before you can visit. Bitterness wells up in the pit of your stomach, but like most things you set it aside. None of it really matters anyway – yes, not knowing his name feels like drowning mid-air, but it won't kill you.

From the moment you reserve a ticket to the moment you can actually use it, you dream of him every night. Sometimes it's actually him, no longer a statue, taking your hands and leading you somewhere you don't belong. His skin is warm, unlike his statue, but just as soft as you imagined. His nails are meticulously cleaned and his eyes are bright, full of a life you're desperate to understand. It doesn't make any sense. You're yearning so deeply for him, for something you've never known before, and every second away feels like pure horror in your veins.

Why do you need him this much?

You look at yourself in the mirror, fixing a strand of hair that falls in front of your eyes. You're dressed well – at least comparatively to your former few weeks of dress – and a quiet excitement thrums in your heart. Today is a day you're going to go out, and to make it better you're going to the museum. They have an Egyptian exhibit. A foolish part of yourself hopes you'll find him there, nestled in the corner of a long and fruitful hallway filled with Egyptian statues.

It's... disappointing, to say the least, to find out there's only one room for Egyptian exhibits and it's occupied by only one thing, besides broken pots and stone dolls. The main exhibit's name is Ahkmenrah, a young Pharaoh older than the Great Pyramids of Giza. All information on him can be fitted onto a four by six stone plate. While standing in his room, surrounded by hieroglyphs you've been studying hard to understand, you look him up on your phone. There's little mention of him, but the one article you do find on him has a 3D recreation of his face. He looks white and you know the article's bullshit.

While absently holding a conversation with one of the curators, you discover there's a store of Egyptian exhibits kept underneath the museum that aren't fit for showcase since the downsizing. Whatever that means, you find a sliver of hope, one that pales quickly at the realization you'll never be able to go down there. They wouldn't let some random visitor (who wasn't even an actual historian) to go see closed off exhibits.

Fischer, the director of the museum, hires you four months after you send your resume in. The second he does you set your plan into motion – there's no time to waste.

The same day he gives you the keys, you're sneaking in under the cover of night. For some reason, the lights are still on in the main museum, but fortunately that's not where you're headed. You unlock the backdoor, sneaking through the night guard's break room until you find the door to the basement. Flipping through the keys on your ring, you quickly find the right one, shoving it into the keyhole and almost wrenching the door open.

You run down the stairs. It's almost sprinting, but you can't be too loud with your shoes. There's nothing in your mind except him, his funny little smile, the somehow soft alabaster of his skin. You need to get to him. Something inside you says he's here – _he's here, he's here,_ and there's nowhere else you can be without your whole body combusting.

You stop dead in your sprint, chest heaving as you're faced with the open boxes filled with Egyptian busts. With frantic eyes you look them over, searching desperately for one familiar face, finding none until the very last open box.

It's here.

 _He's_ here.

The broken nose, the formation of the resulting scar, you recognize every. Fucking. Inch.

Each box contains little notes on who the statues are (if known), the material, the time period, and other such relevant information. Your hands shake as you reach forward, slipping the piece of paper out of the paper stuffing.

_King Ahkmenrah_

_Date: ca. 3,100 - 3000 B.C._

_Period: Old Kingdom_

_Place of origin: Egypt, Cairo_

_Medium: Ivory_

Ahkmenrah.

Sudden clarity strikes you as it never has when you recall searching his name online. He's the exhibit. He's the mummy upstairs. _He's actually here._

The blood in you freezes for a moment, caught up in shock and relief. Now you know his name. A small part of you is finally able to rest with the answer, but the rest of you knows exactly what to do – go upstairs. Find the exhibit. Lay at his side. After all this time you still don't know why, but the ache of neediness in your heart is enough to leave you weak to your inner desires.

Now that your head is clear, or at least unhindered by your questions, you note a worrying amount of sound coming from upstairs. Footsteps pound on the ceiling as you climb the staircase, leaving you curious and terrified. That many people shouldn't be in one place – it's a death wish for the modern plague. You grit your teeth, fingers curling up in to fists that dig your nails deep into your palm. Is it safe to go upstairs? There's definitely people up there and you have no idea who they are. The museum could be being robbed right now and you wouldn't have a clue. It's a death wish.

Why are you still going up the stairs?

Why are you opening the door?

This shouldn't be happening. There's enough people to fill the whole first floor, ranging from the public entrance of the museum to the African exhibits in the back. Almost all of them are wearing historical outfits, in such a wide array you might've thought they'd stolen them from the exhibits, had they not looked exactly like the wax figures. The marble statue of the Roman on his horse is no longer on its' pedestal. Actually, he's talking to a woman a few feet away from you, though he is still on the horse.

You should be passed out on the stairs going by how fast your heart is beating, but instead you stand in the doorway petrified. Your eyes sit wide, scanning back and forth over the crowd, searching for something you don't know of. With all the stimulus in front of you, you don't even know what to think. The exhibits must be coming alive. Does someone watch over them?

It's then, with little clarity in your head, that your eyes land upon the night guard. She doesn't look in the least bit rattled, so you easily assume she's used to this. Her calm is so alarming to you that you blink yourself back into your body.

These are... people. Just people. They haven't been put under some curse that'll bring chaos to the world. All they're doing is partying, and though the noise level is a tad unpleasant, it's just about as rowdy as some teenagers.

When you realize you aren't in danger, you bolt from your place at the door. Twisting through the gathered crowd, you slowly make your way to the staircase, ascending with quick feet as your eyes lock onto the Egyptian hall. It's a few more feet until you turn sharp, shoes squeaking as you slide into the room. The familiar gold lighting greets you, shining off the open sarcophagus, which you skid to a halt in front of as your lungs desperately try to catch up to your legs.

Of course it's empty. Your Pharaoh – or Ahkmenrah, you suppose you should use his name now that you know it – must be downstairs, where the life of the party is. Why would he stay up in this empty room, all alone? From here you can barely even hear the music that was once pounding into your ears. Still, for a moment you stare at the bottom of the vacant coffin, caught in the awe of such a long-standing history.

"What are you doing here?"

The words catch you by surprise, and in reaction you whip around, eyes wide as the voice continues, "who are you?"

 _My King_. Before you can even process the thought, the words roll onto your tongue, but to your immense relief you catch yourself before actually opening your mouth.

"I..." it barely comes out with how little you've physically spoken recently, "I work here."

As usual, your voice carries that quiet, calm, slightly annoyed tone that makes people wonder why you're being so difficult. It's not really something you can control, but the King doesn't seem to notice. Maybe it's worked to your advantage this time; despite your racing heart and frozen feet, you keep an even tone.

"I don't think I've seen you here before," the King says, his eyes narrowing as he steps closer. You try to back up, but you're already pressed against the sarcophagus, and his glare keeps you from running.

"I just started today," you answer honestly.

"Ah," he says, his voice softer the moment he begins to believe you. "This must be rather alarming for you, then."

You're not afraid to admit he's right.

"A tad. How do you speak english?"

"I learned it during my time at Cambridge University," he answers. He's from over 4,000 years ago, so you know he didn't attend as a student.

"You were on display there?"

"Yes," he says with a bright smile, one that catches you entirely off guard.

It practically blows you away – his demeanor changed so quickly, from a stern Pharaoh to a sweet, young man who probably bought his girlfriend flowers every Monday. For a moment you wonder why you were so caught up in him before knowing him; now that you've heard his voice, seen the way he moves, your interest increases tenfold. It's not enough to see him. You need to touch him. You need it more than anything.

"I've been looking for you," you blurt out, but the words come out so slow it sounds like you consciously chose them. You bite the inside of your cheek as you watch his smile falter.

"What do you mean?" He asks. He's standing in front of you now – if you extended your arm and took a small step closer, you'd be touching him.

"There's a sculpture of you," you say softly, swallowing the lump in your throat, "but I didn't know how to find your name."

"How'd you find me, then?" He asks, but he looks less offended. Now there's a keen look in his smile and in his eye, like he's going to enjoy this, like he knows something you don't.

"Sheer luck," you say with a shrug. It's mostly true.

"I think I know you," he says, and his smile quirks further upward.

"What?" You say, trying to back up again as he steps closer. The sarcophagus is, unsurprisingly, still behind you. "How?"

"Back when I was a King, I had a slave my brother killed," he says in the least comforting tone, "but my father had this idea."

Another step closer. You can feel the heat of his naked waist on your shaking hands.

"See, he had a magician in his employ, and he would do anything for me. Especially since I loved that slave _so_ dearly. Truly," he leans forward a little, placing his hand on the gold case behind you and trapping you against him. His chest is practically right against yours, but what you _are_ close enough to feel is his breath, soft on your collarbones. "And so my father retrieved the soul with a special spell and sent it into the future, to possess another at birth, and to lie in wait until I called for it."

You can't feel your – well, anything. There's a pressure on your chest, but you can't tell if that's your wildly beating heart or just his warmth skewing your senses. All you can do is stare up at him wide-eyed. He can't be telling the truth. Magic doesn't work like that, it _can't_ work like that, that's a sick story and he's telling it like it's nothing more than normal. Possessing a newborn child. Sending souls into the future. It can't make sense. You almost feel bad for your past self – under the employ of someone so cruel as to take a soul from the afterlife for his own pleasure.

But he's standing before you. He's 4,000 years old, and he's standing in front of you, pushing you against his own coffin and trapping you there. Do you belong to him, then? Is that why you can't get him out of your head?

"When did your search begin?" He asks softly, a gentle curiosity evident in his brow.

"A – about a year ago," you say, your voice so broken and shaky you're surprised he understands it.

"Last winter?" He asks knowingly, almost sweet, like he's doting on you. Then comes the part that really makes it shine; he reaches up and pets your hair, moving in long, soft strokes.

You nod, unwilling to meet his gaze any longer. How red you must be by now.

"I called on you then. It took you a little while, but I'm glad you made it," he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Unfortunately, I suppose you haven't retained any memories, since you didn't know my name."

"I guess not," you agree quietly. "I just have instincts."

Oh _God_.

If this is how you react just from spending five minutes with him, you can't imagine spending whole nights at his side. You'd explode. From what you don't know yet, but the pulsing rush in your heart is strong enough to worry you, and very rarely do you ever worry about yourself. The words in your head – your immediate reaction – simply won't pass. You can't bring yourself to say them, so you say what he wants to hear.

"As long as you want to."


	34. Benjamin – From The Shell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request: I don’t know if you take requests for Benjamin but could you do a fic between him and a sorceress/sorcerer reader. Maybe they meet in the forest and he watches her/him (maybe it becomes a series)?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> never ONCE in my life did i think i was gonna write a twilight fanfiction. gahdamn

_That's not quite right_.

For several weeks now, there's been something off about the scents in the forest. He's not the only one to have noticed the change, but he is the only one suspicious of it, which he assumes is part due to his connection with the earth. It doesn't bother him, their lack of concern – for some reason, he prefers searching on his own. Hours spent alone amongst the tall, dark trees lined with glittering snow, humming to himself, and tracking the changes in the air.

Today is especially quiet. Almost silent. While it's uncharacteristic for the world to fall silent, it's a common sight in this forest, where nothing quite lives anymore. The trees feel more like stone beneath his fingertips than like wood, and the snow at his feet freezes his skin far colder than it should. 

As the strange scent grows stronger the feeling begins to linger in his own steps, tracing the only walkway through the snow in all the forest, marking him as the singular disturber of the peace. His heart pounds as the dread weighs heavier yet in his chest.

It comes to a point where the pressure is overwhelming, pulling down on his shoulders and legs, begging him to kneel in the presence of nothing more than a sun-lit clearing. Nothing grows in the dirt circle, but there has to be something about it; the snow doesn't cover the earth like it does in meters just steps away. He pauses just outside the edge. Here is where the scent is strongest – there is no doubt.

When he raises his hand to where the sunlight streams from above, he finds a hard surface to press his hand against. His brow quirks upward as he presses harder, gauging the invisible material, wondering as to its' origins. It's a sort of magic, though he can't tell the type. Maybe pagan.

Warmth flows through him when he chants _reveal_ in a silent language. A simple command, and the protection spell around the circle is weak enough to fall at the utterance of his spell.

The mirage falls in just a second, dripping down from the sky like a cloak till what remains is a stone tower. Moss and vines creep their way up the cracks and fissures, somehow still a vibrant green in winter, and presumably kept that way by the warm sunshine falling on this particular spot. The scent, though – it's intoxicating. Not quite good, but not unpleasant either. More like a potion mix of lavender and mustard seed. It overpowers all his other senses, begging him to give in further to his curiosity.

Muttering and footsteps sound from behind him, and in a flash he's hidden behind a small cluster of trees, peeking through the bark to see the clearing and tower.

You appear from the dark, and the first thing he notices is the comically large hat on your head. It covers your face entirely in shade, and though most of your other clothes are just as comically too big for you, it's... cute. You look smaller than you already are, and for some reason Benjamin finds himself blushing. The walking stick in your hand rises high above your head, carrying a crystal atop it that reflects the sunlight in a red hue, casted like stained glass on the white snow.

You're mumbling to yourself as you slowly make your way to the tower's entrance. His eyes widen when he notices a trail following you – half-baked spells and enchantments that glitter like dust in the sun's rays, dissipating in the air before they can fall to the ground. It draws his eyes to the book in your hands that's the size of his head, with old tattered pages covered in notes.

There's a druid in the forest.

He decides it's best if he's the only one to know. The others can get far too protective of territory, misunderstanding the modern way of the world all too easily. It takes a little work to make sure they don't wander too close to your hidden tower, or catch onto your scent and rambling spells, and soon he finds himself with a full-time job of protecting you. Oh well – it's something to do, and in the evenings he can watch you beside the river almost fully frozen over with ice.

The scarf wrapped around your neck is a little too big, drooping onto the ground from your shoulders hunched over the ice. Benjamin's beginning curiosity surrounding you has by now grown into a fondness, strange as it may be. You aren't all that good at protection spells or defensive spells, but you can bend life to your will, moving the water and plants without the power of crystals or runes. The trees seem to whisper everywhere you go, leaves and pines breaking off the branches to simply follow you. He can hardly blame them – he's following you too, after all.

Your nose has turned a blushing pink from the cold, a hint that leads him to believe you're human. Blood and all. Maybe that's part of the reason he likes watching you. You're the only creature within fifty miles that still has warm blood, as all the creatures of the forest have long been driven away by the mere presence of Benjamin and his cult.

It's a few weeks in before he notices that you're humming each time you speak. As though put under a curse, each word you mumble goes to a tune, one that haunts his dreams the second he hears it. All that long term exposure to you must be doing something to his brain – something that convinces him he needs to protect you, something that tells him he shouldn't dare speak to you.

He knows that since you're a druid, you're aware of the existence of the supernatural, but that fact brings little comfort to him as his tongue traces his fangs, watching you with hooded, red eyes. Your magic is different from his own, though to the outside eye the two of you are far more similar than he'd deem correct. The definitions of your different magics are a little shaky, but after some thought he decides that yes, you are a druid. Not a witch, or a warlock, or a sorcerer – none of them quite fit the powers that you have. The way the earth bends to your step.

If Benjamin can't find you at the tower there's only one other place you are; the river. It's still half-frozen over, but as of recent you haven't been all that focused on the water. For the most part you're focusing on the earth, melting the snow beneath you in order to reach it.

You're humming again. Watching the ground with focused eyes, holding glowing fingertips above the fertile earth.

"Idir ann is idir as," you sing, and it must be the first time he's clearly heard your voice, as it circles his head like whiskey and sways the trees into a gentle dance.

Whatever language you're singing, it must be a sort of enchantment. Maybe an offering of good wealth to the lifeless forest. All the world seems to hum in harmony with you, creating your own orchestra that swells with every breath you take.

"As an sliogán, Amhrán na farraige..."

"Suaimhneach nó ciúin – Ag cuardú go damanta."

When did he start humming?

How does he know the tune?

Something is in the air. It's like that scent all over again – all he can think of, all he can feel is you and your magic, overpowering the thoughts of ancient trees and godless skies.

"Between the here, between the now," you sing softly, and he could swear he almost had a heartbeat again, just to lose it in your hypnotic song.

Now you're singing in English – a language he can obviously understand – and with his curiosity towards the meaning of the lyrics gone, he can concentrate on the spells falling from your hand. Tiny stars, tiny universes drift down from your fingertips, landing on the earth as a sprout of vibrant green begins to stretch upwards, a small, white bud on the end.

"Neither quiet nor calm... searching for love again."

It doesn't feel like something so heavenly could come from you. Actually, the way your voice echoes in the forest, the way it combines with your magic makes it feel as though it's coming down from the sky like rain, falling on waiting ears and eager eyes.

When did he start singing with you, under his breath?

How does he know the lyrics?

"Between the stones, between the storm Between belief, between the sea I am in tune..."

And then it stops. The swell dissipates and what you're left with is a white flower sprouted in the ground, the center a vibrant purple that fades into the soft petals.

It's the only color the frozen forest has.

He doesn't quite know what he's doing, when he emerges from his hiding spot long after you return to your home. The sun will rise soon and the others expect him back before then, but something pulls him, _something_ forces him to stay as ' _something_ ' always does. It's probably your lingering magic – that's what he reasons as he steps closer to your flower, wide eyes observing every detail of the white and purple petals.

Kneeling in the snow, he raises his hand above the flower, shifting the wind to brush against the single leaf and allow the pollen to float into the air. Magic like yours falls from his hand – golden stars, drifting onto the ground where they stay like gemstones. It takes a moment before the earth willingly absorbs them, but the moment it does another flower sprouts and blooms much faster than yours did.

Two of them sit there now, one purple and the other blood red. You'll find it - he knows you will. You come here almost every day.

He walks back home with your song occupying all his thoughts, twisting and tweaking him even hours after. It echoes in his head, over and over and over again, until all he can think of is you.

_Neither quiet nor calm_

_Searching for love again..._


	35. Ahkmenrah – The Ivory Haunting pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A special occurrence that leaves you trembling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part two! kind of a weird one but ??? kind of a praise kink in here.

It's not like you can control it. You have little control at all in your current situation, working at a museum where every exhibit comes to life. Chaos surrounds you almost every evening, and though the presence of a night guard is a small comfort, it doesn't stop a particular someone from controlling you.

Not once did you actually consent to being a Pharaoh's plaything, but that's probably the point of it – slaves didn't get a choice, and since you _apparently_ used to be one, you don't get a choice either. If you did you'd be spending your evenings in the lower levels of the museum. Ahkmenrah, though – he has little sense of boundaries when it comes to you. He doesn't stop ordering you around, and for some odd reason you take it. You do the errands he assigns you, you listen to him talk, you follow him around all night like a lost puppy with wide, innocent eyes. You can't even tell if he genuinely cares about you or simply wants his slave back.

There must be something about him that ties you to him, something beyond the ramblings of what could be a great liar. Something pulls you from inside, tugging on the fearful strings of your heart till you bend to his need, allowing every trespass if only to remain in his sight. It's sort of funny, you suppose – if you had the clarity of mind to truly realize it, you wouldn't be here.

"Do you want to know something?" Ahkmenrah asks you, lounging in one of Dr. Fischer's luxurious velvet loveseats. Currently he's enjoying the full delights of your company; an Ethiopian coffee in a porcelain cup, a small assortment of fruit, and you sitting on the floor at his side.

"What?" You ask softly, not bothering to meet his eye.

"It's rather funny, but you haven't changed in the slightest," he says, and you're not sure if that's a comfort or a thing to dread. Either way he smiles, so you're satisfied with yourself, if only for a moment.

You let quiet seep into the air between you before asking, "what was I like?"

"Quiet," he says with a small nod to himself, "malleable."

"Malleable?"

"And sensitive," he adds. You must have a very confused look on your face, since when he turns to look at you, he explains himself further. "You did anything I asked of you without complaint or hesitation. I know one should expect that from a slave, but... they can be difficult sometimes. I don't blame them."

Oh, so he _does_ know slavery is wrong.

Why the hell is he keeping you here then?

"But I especially liked you for one reason," he says, suddenly turning to you and resting his hand on your cheek, ensuring you won't look away from his penetrating gaze. Your breath catches in your throat as his thumb strokes your jawline.

"You're so much fun to tease."

_That's_ why you've been at his beck and call for months? Because he likes teasing you? This bastard – damn him, you thought, damn him and his stupid pretty face. Fortunately for you, he mistakes the anger on your face for further confusion, and orders you to your feet. You do so without hesitation.

"You loved me," he murmurs, looking up at you as he takes your hands, "you _adored_ me, and no matter how many times I touched you, you always acted as though it was the first. Isn’t that beautiful?"

"I... I don't understand," you rasp out, barely able to manage anything louder.

"It's fun to see you want me," he says airily, pulling you closer by the hand till your knees hit the edge of his seat. "See? You're still doing it."

What exactly _it_ is you're not sure, but he looks so pleased with you you find it hard to care. You barely even have time to think on it before he tugs on your hand, forcing you down until you stumble, falling into his lap. It's then that everything in your body stops – your heart, your breathing, your thoughts. Everything is blurred by him. He's everything to you, isn't he? You memorized his face, and now you've memorized his voice, and the feel of his touch.

This is new, though.

You've never sat on his lap and it's doing something weird to you. But Ahkmenrah just laughs, clearly taking delight in your fluster.

"Just like that, my love," he says through his grin, looking up at you like you make the planets spin and the stars appear.

His hands move to your waist, teasing under your shirt and beneath your pants. You barely have enough coherent thought to even _recognize_ the fact that he's essentially undressing you without taking your clothes off. His fingers are a bit cold, but they warm up fast next to the heat of your blushing skin. It takes everything in you not to bolt out when he presses his face into the crook of your neck, leaving tiny kisses as he mumbles against you, the soft rumble comforting your racing heart.

"Mmm," he hums, "so good for me."

_Praise_. It’s getting hard to see out your own eyes.

He nips at the skin of your collarbone, and as you yelp your hands fly up to his shoulders, balancing yourself when you feel like you're about to fall into the sky. But he doesn't like that – he pulls away, takes your hands off him and forces them behind your back.

"No touching," he says, and now you _really_ know what he means by teasing. "You should respect your King, correct?"

You nod.

"You'll please your King, right? Do anything I say," he asks of you, and you nod again, giving the question no thought.

With your thoughts flying every which way, all you're left with is instinct. You still can't reason as to why you so easily acquiesce to him.

"Keep your hands behind your back," he says, purposefully threading your right and left hands together so you'll keep them there, "and don't make a sound."

To him, teasing is, more than anything, simple overstimulation. You can _sort_ of see the appeal of you, since you arch into every grace and bite your lip every other second in hopes of staying quiet. It's amusing to him, and you can't deny you enjoy the feel of his fingertips running down your sides, allowing you the smallest distraction from the ministrations of his lips on your collar. Your breath hitches again when he moves upwards, biting at the edge of your ear.

His affection is dizzying. So dizzying you almost feel sick, far too stimulated and crowded to feel anything less. You have little control of yourself, a fact that he finds much amusement in, and a fact that has you blushing even further.

"Do you f- oh. Oh gosh, I – I'm sorry," Tilly stammers out the second her eyes land on you, her hand still on the handle.

Your eyes go wide as saucers when you hear her, but Ahk remains as calm as ever, if not a little irritated.

"Do you need something?" He asks in a smooth, rumbling voice as he turns slowly to Tilly. You bite into your lower lip, shame coursing through you and making you sicker than you already are.

"Nope," she says, but for a moment she stares at the two of you, shocked into stillness. The next moment she darts out of the room, not bothering to shut the door behind her.

Ahk sighs, resting his forehead against your shoulder with tired eyes.

"Mm," he hums, glancing thoughtlessly over your shoulder, "looks like the coffee's gone. Be a dear go get some wine? I know Tilly keeps some in the storeroom."

He pats your butt as he shifts, slowly removing you from his lap while you try to regain control of your limbs. You can hardly breath when all touch ceases, but as always you acquiesce to his will, and leave to run his errand.


	36. Ahkmenrah – The Ivory Haunting pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe there’s more left of what you used to be than you thought.

This should feel new, but it doesn't. Damn the reverence, damn the love, that warmth in your chest is for no one but him. Isn't he the only one that exists to you now? Who else do you talk to? The other slaves, the servants who look down on you, the rulers of the earth you live upon?

You're not sure when the obsession started – maybe you were born with it, but you know right when it began to take over your life. He was always beautiful––you saw him as a child being paraded through the streets and even then, _even then_ when you met his eye your heart nearly burst out of your chest. Now you're here, knelt before him, a gift from another man to him.

He doesn't look all that impressed with you. You wouldn't be either. Standing tall above you, he's an image of royalty, beautiful and chilling to the deepest parts of your core. He isn't human here, in this room – he is the son of Gods, righteous and cunning. A shiver runs down your spine when he does as little as tilt his head in curiosity.

"... you're giving me a slave?" He asks slowly, eyes leaving you to drag up to your owner with an unimpressed glare.

"Yes, my best one," your owner says, which he says about every person he sells. You know the lie by heart – claim that just because you're Persian you're some sort of foreign royalty. _All_ of his slaves come from Persia. It's where he hunts.

Just as expected he recites the lie, tilting your face upwards to showcase your features that differ from their own. Your long, thick hair that hasn't been cut in years, your darkened eyes, even the curve of your nose. You don't know how your master has managed to pinpoint all these things on your face.

At this point you don't even know what you should fear; staying with your master, or leaving with the Prince. Despite having memorized the young Prince's face during the many parades of the royal family, you know close to nothing about him, and you certainly don't know how he treats his slaves. You don't know if he's a kind person – you know he could hurt you, but so did your master. He could sell you, but so has your master.

"Very well," the Prince says with a hint of disdain, waving over one of his soldiers to take the chain from your master. "It will work in lieu of payment, but I will not be so lenient next time. You will need to have your grain ready."

"Thank you, my Prince," says the master, and those are the last words you ever hear him say.

They yank on your chain and you rattle forward, following the Prince with the quiet footsteps you've learned to make. You don't dare make a sound, so you don't ask where you're going when you're not immediately taken to the palace. Instead you realize, albeit very slowly, that the Prince is going around a sector of Memphis to collect taxes. It makes sense that your master sold you – you haven't eaten in days because of his dwindling supply of grain.

You're more used to the beating sun than the Prince––which doesn't surprise you, considering the amount of manual labor you've done––and when he tires of his duties and the heat he retreats back up to the glittering palace with you in tow. What _does_ surprise you is that he dismisses his guards, taking your chain into his own hands as he leads you through the maze of a palace. The biggest building you'd been in before was one of the temples, one built for Bastet and used by a small congregation of people. This, though – there are so many hallways, so many rooms, so many people, and the Prince knows exactly where he's going.

He leads you to his room––of course he does––and drops the chain the second the door locks behind you. There's a blush on your face, there has to be going by the way your heart beats erratically, pushing on the balance of your breath and the stillness of your eyes. You twitch in nervousness, flickering to every little thing in the room.

The paintings up on the walls tell much kinder stories than those put up in the palace hallways or in the temples of Ra and Horus. Here, instead of the stories of Gods, lies images of the Pharaoh himself and his family. Alongside the image of the Prince sit pools of water, fringed by lines of fruitful bushes that broadcast both the wealth of the artist and of the family. The furniture follows much of the same style – lined with gold, decorated intricately, and each piece worth more than yourself.

"What's your name?" He asks you, his back turned as he keeps his attention at his desk. You can't see what he's doing.

_You can't hear your own answer._ Muffled against your thoughts _._

"Was he telling the truth?"

"... what?" You stumble, bound hands curling up against your chest as anxiousness once more seizes your fingers. When he turns you can't breathe – he looks right at you, and for the first time you make eye contact. It boils an unease in your stomach. In each hand he holds a chalice of sorts, swirling with red wine.

"Are you royalty? Are you even Persian?" He asks in a lax tone, leaning back against his desk in a way that both confuses and calms you. In the very least it seems he's not in a mood to hurt you.

"I am Persian," you answer honestly, your voice soft with your own placitude, "but I can't say I was ever royal."

"Mm," he hums, "I didn't think so. No matter – what specialty shall I place you in? Labor.. cleaning..."

He drifts off in thought as his eyes glaze over, attempting to recall the many jobs of slaves in Memphis. You don't bother to list off the ones you know, even though your list is _much_ longer than what he's stated, as you don't want him to remember the more unpleasant of the bunch.

"Let's see," he says. 

When did he get so close to you? Last you checked he was on the other side of the room, but now you're standing right up against him, cheeks burning as his eyes rake up and down your form.

The edge of his lip quirks upwards, showcasing a small smirk as his fingers reach out to touch your arm. He runs them up your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake as he observes you – you and your uneven breath. You know he's checking you. He stated his purpose up front, and now he's looking over you, wondering what kind of labor you're used to. Where the muscles have formed. The sensitive parts of your body.

"I think you'll do well as a personal servant," he finally decides, though it doesn't look like the decision was all that much persuaded by the parts of your body that he felt. It feels more like a flimsy excuse.

"A personal servant?" You clarify in an uneven voice.

"Mhm. Have you ever done that before?"

"No," you mumble.

"Don't worry. You're in good hands," he says, but you're not sure if you should let that be a comfort. "Stay close to me," he commands, "and that way I will always be there to protect you. Yes?"

You barely speak the word but the movement of your lips is apparently enough.

"Be wary of my brothers, and _never_ go into the cellars without me," he warns you. You nod, almost eagerly. "Do you have a family?"

It's a difficult question considering the origins of your move from Persia to Egypt, but the simple answer is no, not anymore.

"Then you'll stay here. With me."

He takes the cups from where he had set them, handing one to you and sipping from the other.

"Yes, my Prince."

+

_It's that._

There it is––or, there it was. That's where you remember this feeling, the feeling of ultimate longing for something unknown, someone new, someone you know is inherently safe despite not knowing a thing about him. It occurs to you all at once, but unlike other memories it doesn't play like a movie. Instead you find it hidden in the corner of your mind, tucked away for God knows how long, desperate to be felt again. When you find it, it doesn't feel like yourself. You suppose that's too much to ask of ancient magic.

The more you think about the historical value of this core memory, the more interesting it becomes. You had, of course, always known that part of the ancient world resided within Ahk, but he never willingly told you anything unless it was about yourself. Maybe he wanted you to remember naturally, and if so it certainly worked.

"What do you think?"

How many times has this happened now, where you space out entirely, leaving your body to experience some other sensation of life? It happens a lot in his presence – he must be sick of you.

"... what?" You ask softly, brow furrowing in confusion. Even now you can't meet his eye.

"The wine, dearest. What do you think?"

You look down and there's a glass in your hand, lip marks already on the edge.

"I –– sorry, I..." you take a moment to taste the wine again, the flavor having already fallen dull on your tongue. It's nothing special, but it's smooth, and you know he likes those types of wines. You nod and he beams.

He sits you down––just the two of you, and you sit shoulder to shoulder on the velvet lounge. Most of the time you sit on the floor, or on the stool in the corner, but apparently not tonight. No, tonight he has some sort of desire to be close to you, to _reward_ you with an affection he purposefully holds back. 

You open your mouth to speak, but before any sound comes out you shut it. There’s no advice to be given in your situation, so you’re split between informing him of your vision and keeping him in the dark. Thus far he's been in the full belief that you recall nothing from the past. Thus far he's been right.

_I don't need to bother him with that_ , you eventually decide. After all, you're still just his servant – you don't need to bring up trivial things. Especially not when he pulls you into him, resting his cheek atop your head as a long sigh escapes him.

You could exist like this for eternity.


	37. Ahkmenrah – Make Me Your Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s never seen anything like you––nothing comes close to your royalty, your beauty, your power, and it draws him in deeper.

"Now I want you two to _stay quiet_. Do you understand that? Under no circumstance should you speak without being spoken to," Merenkahre said under his breath, his voice low as he spoke to his two sons. Ahkmen nodded––Kahmuh did not, but he'd heard his fathers' words nonetheless.

"These are the Canaanites, right?" Kahmuh asked in a flat tone.

"Phoenicians," Ahkmen corrected.

"Same thing, but don't let them know I said that, okay?" His father said.

Before Ahkmen could even chuckle, his mother called the three of them into the throne room. He hurried past his brother to stand beside her, looking over the long, glorious hall adorned with pillars and vases towards the tall double doors. Shrouds of silk hung from the ceiling, clouding the paintings drawn so painstakingly on the ceiling.

The breath of fresh air in his chest left him the moment Kahmuh came up behind him, taking his spot closer to the throne.

"I was -"

"We go by rank, don't you remember?"

He curled his fingers into his palm but said nothing. Kahmuh loved to annoy him, and though he never benefitted from teasing him, he continued to do it. Now, however, was a bad time to give into the urge to retaliate––the doors would open anytime now, bringing with it streaming sunlight and foreign royalty.

For several years now Kemet had been embroiled in a conflict with Phoenicians. It was one begun by his father, who had hoped to control several of the bay cities for the trade links they provided to Mesopotamia. This part of his father's life had been kept secret from him––entirely on purpose––until they began to fight back. A treaty was established the moment Merenkahre realized his armies could be beat, and now here they were, waiting for the one who had stepped up to take control of Phoenicia. Ahkmen had yet to know their name. His mother had given him scant information, and his father was unwilling to tell.

Rustling from outside brought his attention back to the front, eyes training back onto the door as it began to crack open. It was a sight he'd seen before, the opening of those mystical doors––rarely at sunset, but today was lucky. Red light streamed into the room, clashing brightly with the gold built into the pillars and marble floor. The light fell saturated on his tan skin till he and his family practically glowed auburn.

A short train of people came through the doors, their shadows stretched against the red carpet before them. The hall fell silent at their entrance; all eyes locked onto the veiled figure in the middle drifting closer to the throne. His breath halted right up to the moment the train came to a stop before the Pharoah. It was then the soldiers surrounding the cloaked figure fell into a bow, revealing tall tresses of black and red silk, a veil lined in gold, and purple hair framing soft cheeks.

Ahk's mouth opened unwittingly, staring at you. Were you born like that? How was that possible? And you––you couldn't be much older than twenty. _This_ was what his father had to find peace with? This was what they would've died to?

The stone look on your face matched his fathers' bitter politeness perfectly. Merenkahre's jaw set as he smiled, rising from his seat to greet you personally. He raised his hand to shake yours and you matched him, raising a hand adorned in golden rings and blood red nails, shaking his hand without a hint of the Pharaoh's kindness in your eye.

"I thank you for the invitation to your country," you said, your lips twitching upwards just slightly, just enough to look polite.

"I'm glad you took up our invitation. We have a feast prepared––I'm sure you and your men are tired from the journey," said the Pharaoh, gesturing towards the doorway opposite the entrance.

You glanced down at the bowed soldiers. As your eyes flickered upwards they landed upon the youngest Prince, leaving him petrified from the acid in your gaze.

"Yes," you said after a moment, turning back to the Pharaoh. "That would be kind of you."

Several of the palace guards took the lead of your group, leading you through the small hallway to the dining hall. The hall was placed near the court for convenience, but the decision left Ahkmen little time to ask his father anything, leaving him stumbling over which question was more important.

He pushed his way past his mother and brother, landing beside his father, who still had his teeth gritted tight.

"How old are they exactly?" He asked, but earned no response from the distant thoughts of Merenkahre. Clearly his father was a tad preoccupied––Ahkmen would, most likely, not be getting answers from him anytime soon.

Ahkmen stared at you throughout the whole dinner. Not once did you glance to see him––if you had, he probably wouldn't have been staring. At least not so hard. You're impressively hard to look away from, your smile curt and teasing, unearthly purple hair curled around a crown of spindly gold.

Over the course of the conversation, he learned several things, most namely the duration of your stay. No one had an exact count of days, but you and your soldiers would stay until a peace treaty was reached with the Pharaoh. Knowing his father's advisors, Ahkmen surmised you would be here for a while, a fact that brought a smile to his face. Even though you hadn't spared any more than a single glance at him, he found he didn't care as long as he could keep looking at you.

He wasn't invited, but he followed anyway when one of the priests led you to your room. You bid the priest good-night only when two of your soldiers entered the room with you, before turning to Ahkmen, a soft but blank expression on your face.

"You're one of the princes, aren't you?" You asked in the silence. His eyes widened at the unexpected question.

"Well, um – yes," he said, stammering over his words.

"How old are you?"

The question took him by surprise but he didn't hesitate to answer.

"Seventeen years."

You paused to take in his reply, apparently finding much to contemplate in his age.

"When I was your age, I was spending my time uniting my Kingdom and clawing us out of starvation," you said in a lofty tone, but before he could form a response, you continued. "I suggest you do something useful, like that, instead of staring at foreign dignitaries."

_Oh_.

"I – I'm sorry, I didn't –"

"No need to apologize. Just keep it in mind."

"But... then how old are you now?" He asked, nails digging into his palm. You held his eye so intently now that you were speaking to him.

"Eighteen," you said with a smile, promptly shutting the door in both Ahkmen and the priest's face.

The priest turned to Ahkmen, a single brow raised. An awkward silence stretched between them.

"Can you not tell my father about this?" Ahkmen finally asked.

"As long as I never have to watch you two converse again," he said.

"Deal."

+

Ever since you came he was enchanted by you––that much was obvious to see. His mother knew, as did his father (although reluctantly), and by his count you probably did as well. Fortunately enough for him, you didn't tease him about it. Instead you kept a polite distance from him––a decision he simply couldn't understand.

He's rarely allowed inside the court while something important is in session, but his father called him in, and he didn’t mind an excuse to be in the same room as you.

"Ahk, come here," the Pharaoh said, and he obeyed, standing by his father's side. "You and the princ-"

" _King_ ," you said sharply. It's a title you insisted on constantly, one that your soldiers willingly upheld despite the obvious contradiction. The Pharaoh pulled his lips into a thin line in clear irritation.

"You're around the same age, right?"

Ahkmen nodded.

"Why don't you show them around a little? I'm sure they'd like a break from all these meetings," Merenkahre suggested.

"I assure you I am perfectly fine," you said.

"Septy," one of your advisors leaned over to you, whispering in your ear. He couldn't quite make it out but the tension in your face fell. It was almost nice––you're always irritated around the Pharaoh and it showed.

"Very well," you said, and it looks like it took an enormous amount of pain to get the words out. "I will go with your... son."

Ahkmen practically beamed, making his way across the room to you before taking your hand, and leading you out of your seat. Before you could send any more of a scathing glare at Merenkahre, he guided you out of the room and into an empty hall.

The already-quiet voices of the court faded away as the distance grew greater, leaving the two of you in a common silence.

"He's not making your job easy, is he?" Ahkmen asked despite knowing the answer.

"Neither of us truly desire peace," you said bitterly. "Only to destroy the other. We'll both have to get over that if we're to reach any agreement."

"... I agree," he said, still caught up in staring at you.

The purple in your hair glinted in the streaming sunlight, the only color in the barren hallway lined with arches. Outside, the city sat in its' great bustle, ships lining up and down the Nile, markets flooding each section of Memphis. The sight is one he knew well, but you halted. In a flash he remembered you never came from a wealthy country––you had to build it. Unless you visited some other country, you had never seen a thriving city market.

His footsteps fell quiet when you stopped at one of the arches, eyes trained on the tiny subjects below. A lump grew in his throat the closer he stepped to you.

"How does commerce within the city work for you?" You asked.

Truthfully, Ahkmen had little clue on how the government worked. Only the tidbits he'd picked up from his father. Kahmuh was the one becoming Pharaoh––that was why he was in classes and Ahkmen was allowed free roam.

"We use a fair amount of trade," he began, though had little idea on how else to continue. "We, um... we use grain as a form of currency."

"How much in just one unit?"

He sucked in a sharp breath, biting into his lower lip as he tried to recall. Most times he went out to buy things, they priced far above a single bag, as his tastes were heavily influenced by his palace life.

"It's fine," you said curtly, stopping him in his plight. A small, relieved sigh left him.

"You must know quite a lot about your own government," Ahkmen said in a soft voice. You didn't move from your position, didn't tear your eyes from the market, but the edge of your lip quirked up just slightly.

"I should hope so," you said with a growing smile, "I built it, after all. Or... some of it. I must admit I was aided greatly by my advisors."

Ahkmen chuckled, following you when you left your spot at the arch. He took a quiet lead of the path forwards, discreetly guiding you outside the palace, where the sun shone freely on his skin. The warmth of it gave him good reason to wear few clothes. You, on the other hand, were still adorned in your black and red silk.

"I'm curious," Ahkmen said, keeping a keen eye on you, "how did you come to rule the Phoenicians? Were you royal to begin with?"

"Yes," you said with a sage nod. "My parents were descended from our Gods. When I took control, it was a crucial part of me––it was the only way I could unite the entirety of our cities."

"That's fascinating. So you control the entirety of that coast, now?"

"The cities are independent from me, but for the most part, yes. Now; I would love to discuss such matters with you, but I was promised a break from the politics," you said, and Ahkmen quickly remembered his manners.

"Of course, yes. Sorry. I know a few places you might like," he said with a smile, earning a small one in return as he led you down the sunlit street.

The more free-roaming children that passed by, the more relaxed you grew, eyes dancing at every market stall and homefront. Ahkmen had never known anything but this––to see a King who knew none of it at all was rattling to say the least. Even you, in all your majesty, found the same happiness in others that Ahkmen found in his people. The citizens seemed to like you as well, though he would've been surprised if they didn't. It wasn't every day they got to see someone with purple hair.

"I have a question," he said as the two of you passed by a murmuring crowd. "I, uh, hope this isn't rude, but how is your hair that color?"

"Dyed, actually," you answered, staring forward at the approaching Nile. "Half our trade is made up of this dye. We are great craftsmen and traders, but only recently have we been able to show that to the rest of the world."

"Why's that?"

"Well, before I came, we had no way of travelling to other cultures. I managed to befriend a great architect by the name of Batnoam. You've seen him––he stands beside me in court, but... he built these ships of curved hulls and long sails, allowed for us to hold power over your Pharaoh," you said, your accent becoming more pronounced as your hands moved thoughtlessly to the words. "Once we gained that we gained allies and established trade routes that, I believe, turned the war against you. No offense intended."

"None taken. I know my father can be.. difficult," Ahkmen said. He jumped when you belted out a laugh, raising your chin to the sky.

"I know firsthand your father's military tactics. But there are things he wants from me, things that he realizes he can't take by force."

"Such as..?"

"Look at me," you said, and as he stopped before you, he noticed the sudden quiet of the world around you. You'd made it to the Nile, and walked down far enough to escape the bustle. "Do you see my beauty?"

He nodded.

"Can you feel the power I have?"

He nodded again, too absorbed in your dulcet tone to notice the meaning of your words.

"I have made myself like this, but Merenkahre doesn't know that. He believes my power comes from my riches, from the items my people trade with those around us, and he wants that power. I don't blame him."

"You are _so beautiful_ ," he blurted out, eyes still wide as he stared at you.

"I know, dearest. You can close your mouth. I have no need for a prince, and I'm not looking for a Queen."

A soft, dreamy sigh left him as you turned, your attention shifting to the slow waters of the river. He just smiled––his heart burned warm in his chest, leaving tingling in his limbs each time they moved.

_I can be your Queen_ , he thought without much logic behind his words besides the adoration he held for you. You took the title of King when you rose to power; there was no need for a Phoenician King, but they could do–– _you_ could do––with a queen such as himself. At least, that's what he liked to think. That's what made his heart giddy.

"Do you come down here often?"

"As much as I can," he answered. You smiled imperceptibly.

"I've always enjoyed the water," you murmured, staring at your reflection. In a split second you seemed to return to yourself, looking up to Ahkmen. "I grew up on the coast."

"I'm happy to take you down here anytime you need a break from the pressure," Ahkmen offered, his heart skipping at the thought of this happening more often. You contemplated his words for a moment before answering.

"I would like that."


	38. Ahkmenrah – The Nose Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dinner and offerings to the Gods devolves into something much quieter.

The first thing on the list was obvious––you didn't even need to get them, as they were a common staple in your diet, especially around the festival of Opet. Dates, specifically medjool, and though you already had a box at home the thought of pitted dates came to you. If you got a couple nuts and coconut sugar you could stuff them, which was always a nice treat.

Number two and three on the list were a vegetable mix and olives.

Ahk mentioned liking olives.

You paused in the middle of the grocery store, staring at the list on your phone. Ahk would like all of this, actually––why hadn't you thought of that before? How many years have you celebrated this festival in a row and never thought of your friend?

Despite knowing exactly how the museum came to life every night, you'd never met anyone besides him. It was one of those evenings (or midnights, really) where restless wanderlust had you roaming the streets, looking for buildings to scale and the tallest places you could get to. The museum ended up being one of them, and that was where he saw and accosted you, a scared look in his eye that held you petrified.

That was a while ago now, though. It had to be... two? maybe three? years since you first met him, and considering the state of his existence he was a wonderful friend. And a _very_ nice man to dream about.

One time he mentioned being a vegetarian, which happened right around the time he told you Teddy, a man also from the museum, recently became vegetarian as well. You wouldn't mind planning the feast around that. Thus you continued your shopping, a faint smile on your face as you imagined Ahk's upcoming look of surprise.

His hand in yours, you led him down the hallway, watching as he trailed behind you with a vacant but confused smile.

"I, the child of Khonsu," you began as you walked, starting a recitation of a prayer that you and Ahk had long since memorized. It would act as a sort of hint.

"I, the son of Ra," he returned.

"I will live and have power beneath the branches of the tree of Hathor. There Re appears in his horizon, his Ennead following him. Raise yourself, Re who are in your shrine, that you may lap up the breezes. May you swallow the northern wind, may you entrap the day, may you kiss Ma'at, may you sail the Sacred Bark to the Lower Sky, may you reckon up your bones and turn your face to the beautiful West."

In chanting unison you recited the prayer, the image of your shrine flashing behind your eyes. By now you remembered every detail of it, how it looked when you fell to your knees and prayed, soft utterances falling from your lips.

Your shrine at home was much prettier, much better managed than your portable one, but the smaller worked fine for your spot on the museum roof. Ahk never needed a jacket, but you did––for that you brought several thick blankets, wrapping up around the shrine and your pillow seats. Candlight surrounded the mobile shrine, illuminating the small painting of Khonsu in the back. For Ahk you brought an image of Ra, painted in faux gold, and gifted to him a couple months back.

His eyes drew first to the food. Plates of well-seasoned peas, turnips, lettuce, garlic, and onion––stacks of honey cakes and bowls of stuffed dates. In the middle lay the offering dish, one made of carved and stained wood and lined with flowers.

"How did you...?"

"Tied it all up in a big blanket and hauled it up the side," you said with a laugh, eyes set intently upon him, gauging his reaction. Thus far he looked delighted––beyond delighted. Almost... blushy.

"This.. this is –"

"Unwarranted?" You finished for him, raising a single brow.

He nodded.

"Don't worry," you said, once more taking his hand and leading him to sit down on his pillow seat. "It's the festival of Nehebkau today. Perfectly good reason."

"I suppose so," he said softly, attention drifting between the different plates.

"Offerings first?" You asked, and he nodded.

For the proceeding five minutes you stacked a fair amount of food onto the offering plate, lighting an incense whose smoke drifted high into the night sky. Without a roof above you, the scent remained distant, which suited you just perfectly for the meal you began to eat. An interesting yet uninvolved conversation flowed between you two, your attentions divided between the food and one another.

While Ahk finished up the remaining bites on his plate, you dug into your bag in search of your lute. You didn't play it often, more suited to guitar, but on the go it was a much lighter and smaller instrument.

"I lov–"

"Do you want to –"

You spoke at the same time, stammering and chuckling when you both recoiled your statements.

"You go first," you said, hands falling into your lap as you fidgeted.

"No, it's alright. What were you saying?"

"I just – wanted to know if you wanted to make some music," you said as you raised the lute into his line of sight.

"Sounds wonderful," he said with a happy, but dissatisfied, smile.

He taught you this one. The words. Together you translated it into English, though you rarely sung such songs in that language. Still, as you sung, you turned the words into English in your head, following along with the beat of your own voice.

_But I, I am excited by your love alone_

_My heart is in balance with yours_

_and may I never be far from your beauty._

_Yet I have departed from you now,_

_and when I think of your love,_

_my heart stands still within me._

_The taste of sweetcake_

_Turns bitter on my tongue_

_The scent of your nose_

_is what revives my heart._

_I have obtained,_

_forever and ever_

_What Amun has granted me._

"You sing that song well," he commented as you finished, quiet so as to not break the spell of music. "It becomes you."

Before you could answer he leant forward, eyes concentrated deeply into yours as his fingers raised to brush the hair off your face. Your heart skipped a beat as his skin touched yours. The two of you had never been all that touchy with each other––the furthest thing you'd done was a quick hug, leaving you clueless as to the sudden affection.

"You asked me about that one line in there, the one about the noses. When was that?" He asked, his head quirking to the side.

"Um.. a couple months ago maybe? You never gave me a direct answer. Why do you ask?"

He paused before opening his mouth, eyes straying to the side as a blush overtook him.

"It's called a nose kiss," he said, though apparently still couldn't bear to meet your gaze. "When a couple rubs their noses together and take in each others' scent."

You leaned forward the two inches it took to reach his face, closing your eyes as you bumped his nose with yours. At last his eyes turned to you, wide as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. Once he did so he laughed––blushed a deeper red, and looked bashfully to the floor.

"Not quite that short," he mumbled through the soft laughter wracking his shoulders.

So you tried again; leaned forward with a gentler touch, brushing your noses together instead of bonking. Still your eyelids fluttered shut, focusing on the scent of him, the feel of his warmth, the rush of your heart at every grace. He sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders tensing until your hand came up to cup his jaw. Then he relaxed, moved into you, slotted his nose beside yours and landed the softest kiss right above your lips.

"Better?" You asked.

He kissed you again, this time on your lips.


	39. Detective Baxter – In Hiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request from just-a-queen-bee on tumblr: Hi again! Umm, I don’t know if you write for our hardass detective but here’s my two cents of an hc: You’ve been trying to purposely keep something from him all day and he tries something different. After you take a shower, he switches out your regular panties with vibrating ones and keeps the remote. So when he interrogates you he has a sinister/smutty edge to it. (I understand if this request is too weird or you don’t write for this character 👍🏾)

"You're a little off this morning," he says in that low voice, rough with sleep. You bite the inside of your cheek.

"How so?"

"You're just... off," he says. You should've expected him to notice something––he knows you far too well, and beyond that, figuring out when people are lying is literally his job.

"Is something wrong?" He asks.

"No," you lie, pretending to look nonchalant. Well, it's not a total lie. Nothing's really _wrong_. There's just something he can't know.

He glares at you from across the table but says nothing. Already you can tell ideas are stewing in his head, figuring out how he can draw the truth from you. You know the drill by heart; every time you try to throw him a surprise party, he's figured out what you're planning days before the actual party. It's irritating––very irritating––but there's nothing like the sly light in his eye as he watches you, his glare burning right through your skin. He sits in his cushioned chair, legs spread wide as he toys with the collar of his shirt.

Today is no different from all the last times, feeling him watch your every move. You're in the kitchen cleaning out your cake pans, and the moment you set down the last one, he's trapping you against the counter. You jolt forward in surprise, sucking in a breath. There's one hand on either side of you, his chest pressed right up against your back.

"C'mon," he mumbles softly, his voice rumbling and low against the skin of your neck. "I'll get it one way or another... might as well end the torture now."

"Before it starts?" You ask with a giggle, but he's clearly not in the mood for it. He pushes you harder against the counter till you can barely move your hips.

"Don't play games," he says, right up against your ear. His heat turns the tips of your ears a brighter red, the blush spreading into your cheeks.

"There's nothing wrong," you insist. He hums.

"We'll see."

Two more times he tries, using a variety of different techniques. Kindness, intimidation, bargaining––none of it works, and his head insists that means The Secret is more important. The harder you fight against him the harder he wants to play, until the mail comes and you're in the shower.

A week or so ago he'd ordered (online, as always) a special toy for you. Something he forgot to tell you about. A mischievous grin crosses him as an idea comes––an idea to get The Secret out of you. And this time, it'll work.

He has to be quick in order to make it to the bathroom and sneak in without you finishing your shower. You're humming to yourself, so he allows himself a little elbow room, discreetly replacing your panties with the new ones. When he shuts the door behind him, a relieved sigh leaves him. Now to wait.

It doesn't take long for the rush of water behind the walls stops, alerting him to you stepping out of the shower. He sits in the living room, eagerly awaiting for you, his legs splayed wide as usual.

You enter dressed in a large shirt about twenty minutes later, eyeing him suspiciously as you head to the kitchen. He's got a remote in his fingers, twiddling between his middle finger and forefinger, and the fact that you don't recognize it already has you suspicious.

"Last chance," he warns.

"I told you there's nothing wrong. You get way too suspicious of me sometimes," you say, paying little attention to the fact that he's creeping up behind you.

This secret you're keeping from him––it's not something you need to tell him. Not yet. You don't _want_ to tell him, and as much as you enjoy this game he's ever so eager to play, you can't help but feel irritation at the lack of trust he has in you.

All of it goes mute when he presses his body against yours, moving foward till you're trapped against the wall. As he does a sudden, prolonged vibration hits right on your clit, pulling a long, sudden moan from your lips. Several questions go through your head, namely how the hell he managed to get a toy down there without you knowing. The second question is _how the hell does this still excite you?_ How many times has he trapped you beneath him, put sin into his every touch and always draw the sweetest, softest moans from you, and it still burns when his lips touch your bare skin.

You gasp lightly when the sensation stops, replaced by wandering hands all up your torso and thighs.

"You seem anxious, darlin’," he says, the rumbling vibrations spreading from his chest to yours. "So I'll tell you exactly what I'm going to do."

Your eyes flutter shut as he kisses down your neck. Hands still explore your body––one he's known for long enough to recognize you in pitch black darkness, one he still reveres with every touch.

"I am going to detain you," he says with a soft grunt, and he pulls at your arms, locking a metal cuff around one of your wrists before moving onto the next one, "and I am going to get the truth from you," he tugs on the lock to ensure its' secure, "and you are going to do every little thing I say."

"I told you I'm not –"

You're cut off by yourself, a long, sweet moan tumbling out of you as vibrations bloom between your heated thighs, rubbing up perfectly against you. His hand goes up to your hair and tugs harsh on your locks.

"What did I just say?"

"I'm going to tell the truth," you push out through gritted teeth, blissful pressure building all over your body. He kicks them up a notch––speeds it up, shifts against you so it hits _just perfect_.

"And?"

"I'm going to do what you say," you say through a keening moan you can't hold back.

"Good little pet."


	40. Ahkenrah – The Iris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request from thekamiiiworld on tumblr: hello! i'd like to make an ahkmenrah x reader request! maybe present-day reader gets teleported back in time to when ahkmenrah was alive and they eventually get to the palace and stuff happens? maybe they tell him about modern life? and maybe reader is unnaturally beautiful to the ancient egyptians because humans evolve to be more attractive as time goes on so a person from our time would be hot shit 4,000 years ago? this is long lmao. thanks!

Okay. It isn't that bad.

Would you ever see your family again? Probably not, but you weren't ruling the possibility out.

Would you ever get to have sour patch kids again? Probably not. But even during the time you lived in 2020, you had eaten more concentrated sour patch kids flavor than all of the people around you combined.

This little village on the outskirts of ancient Thebes is hardly L.A.––though that's probably a good thing––and is small enough for you to know every inhabitant. Your shop there is small to suit the town, and well known ever since your arrival in this time.

They found you beside the river, thought you to be a gift from the Gods. You were hazy, though––whatever had so forcefully pushed you back in time had made your head spin, making you sick and unbalanced. So, when they asked if you did in fact come from the Gods, you had no way of defending yourself either way. Generally you've been denying it––they think you _are_ a god, and the only way you've convinced them you're _not_ a god is by saying you're a gift from them. It explains the way you look, unnaturally beautiful and alien amongst the more pure genetics of earlier humans.

Your shop is pretty simple. You make portraits from paint, more realistic than anything else that exists, and it only affirms their belief in your god-like status. Fortunately word seems to not have gotten out––the village has remained small, and no one from Thebes has run into you. Every now and then you get unreasonably anxious that a noble will find you and turn you into a slave. It's a worry most people around you have, so you find comfort in the fact that you're not the only one. Still, you're not quite accustomed to such an atmosphere––the thought of nobles and Kings noticing you still sends terrified aches into your stomach.

It's about two weeks in that it gets bad. People start to pass by the village, more than you would've thought, and they're all looking to trade goods, food, and information. The people of the village talk about you––you're something interesting, you can't deny that, but they don't know just how worried you are. Whenever you see someone you don't recognize outside your home, you refuse to come out.

Five days later and there's soldiers in your home, looking over your paintings on their way back to Memphis from conquering the realm of Kush. You hold a deep contempt for them––you don't know all that much about history, but you know how Egyptian soldiers and Pharaohs reigned power over the people of Kush.

The soldiers aren't all that worrying. What really gets your heart pounding is the final man to enter your hut; a man bearing a crown and a long sword, with golden braces around his wrists and a chest plated in green scales. Your fingers dig into the wood of your counter when he notices you. The crown on his head––it's the crown of both upper and lower Egypt.

This is a Royal.

"Where did you learn this skill?" He asks you, eyes trained on one of your bigger drawings. It's just on papyrus––not for sale––and hung on the wall as a display of your talent.

"I spent a little while travelling the world," you answer. Technically, growing up in the modern world was a bit like travelling the world; you got to see the cultures and practices of many, many people. "The rest of it's practice."

"The peasants here, they... they claim you came from the Nile. Is that true?"

"Well... that is where I was found," you say carefully, but you can already tell you've fucked up. The look on his face is indescribable beyond the fact that he's pleased.

"How would you feel coming back to the capital with me?" He offers to you, setting his hands on the counter and leaning forward. "I think my father would much like to meet you."

"I – I don't think I'm really cut out for -"

"Nonsense," he dismisses with a smile, taking your hand from its' spot on the wood. "We shall teach you proper writing skills, give you a beautiful home, and the salary isn't horrid either."

You can't just say no. If you do, he's going to ask questions––he's going to get confused, and he's going to get suspicious. No one would turn down an opportunity like this; free schooling, free housing, and much more money for something you already do.

"Well... alright," you say quietly, looking to the home around you that you built with the help of the other villagers.

"Wonderful. My name is Kamun."

He's not a very nice person, you come to find. Or perhaps he's just not your tastes––the soldiers seem to like him well enough, at least the ones who aren't completely subordinate to him, but his attitude towards women and poor people is scathing to say the least. Otherwise he's very amusing, with a good sense of humor and quite generous with his food and wine as long as he gets his fill of it first.

The boat back to Memphis, where the royal family currently stays, is a long ride filled with various entertainments. It's clear these are not soldiers accustomed to rough conditions––the dancing women and flowing beer is enough to tell you that. Instead, you surmise these are faux war-heroes; people adored in their hometown for doing nothing but intimidating others in a foreign country. They try to get cushy with you, soften you up to their words and touches. It doesn't work.

He keeps you close to him. You let him do it, sort of––it's better than telling him no. Better than starting a ruckus. Then again, avoiding a ruckus is what got you here in the first place, standing before the doors of the courtroom where a false God on earth rules the Nile.

"Father, I bring you a gift from Thebes," says Kamun, pushing you forward by the small of your back. You can't bring yourself to meet the Pharoah's eye, so you fall to your knees and bow.

Everyone is staring at you. You don't look normal, and they all know it, and _you_ know it. You could cry from the heat of their eyes on your back.

One of Kamun's soldiers steps forwards, handing the Pharaoh and his wife several of the drawings they'd taken from you. Silence passes as the two scan your work.

"How did you achieve such a mirror of the human face?" The Pharaoh asks in a slow, deep voice that sounds as he looks––old, weathered, wise.

"They came from the Nile," Kamun answers for you, and murmurs take the crowd by storm. You, on the other hand, feel your heartbeat increase in massive increments, speeding your already uneven breath. "A gift from the Gods, the locals said."

"I can't – I am not magic," you rush out, hoping your clarification clears you of any responsibility to the Pharaoh. You know he rules everything––if he says you are to stay here, you have no choice, and you don't like it here. Too many people. "I cannot give you anything, my King."

"I think you're lying," says a voice, its' tone soft and a velvet low. It catches you off guard, brings you to raise your head and meet the eyes of someone you don't know; a young man dressed in gold beside the Pharaoh's throne.

You almost lose your breakfast as your eyes bulge, your mind instantly recognizing him and connecting the dots. You were, by far, not a historian, but you knew a fair amount of Egyptian history––namely a family in the Old Kingdom who was headed by the Pharaoh Merenkahre. The remaining statues and busts of the King and his son are astonishingly accurate, and there can be no doubt in your head.

That being said, there also can't be any reaction on your face. You try your best to reign your expression in.

"I..."

Actually, you do have something to offer now. You know the names––memorized the history, committed each event to memory, and now you can pull their lifestory off from the top of your head. Wouldn't that be valuable to a King; a seer of the future, to predict the rise and fall of the economy and the coming armies. Besides, you can't just say he's wrong. That'd be treasonous to them. So you have to agree you're hiding something, come up with an excuse as to why you hid it, and it proves harder than you thought. You're quickwitted, though––it got you away from the villager's wrath, and it will promote you to noble living now.

You hide a smirk beneath a calm expression as you address the younger prince.

"They gifted me foresight," you say quietly, pretending as though it hurts you to tell the truth, "but told me to never inform others."

"You are in the presence of Ra once more," the Pharaoh reminds you.

"And others," you point out. "I would... it would be better to discuss such matters.. in private."

Detailed information about already-past events is enough to sway him to believe you. The Pharaoh is surprisingly easy to convince, and with a few, meaningless predictions of the future, he gives you housing in his own palace. Kamun looks proud of himself––puffs his chest out in front of his father and earns no compliment. Ire laces his glare as it falls upon his brother, Ahkmen, praised for his ability to see through your obvious lie.

The Pharaoh asks his younger son to guide you to your room. Apparently it's closer to his room than it is to Kamun's, and evening is approaching fast. The walk there, while short, is marked by a conversation composed mainly of Ahkmen's questions and your answers. When the two of you reach your room, he doesn't leave––actually, he follows you in and locks the door.

There's nothing more terrifying than a man with unchecked power, and there is no one watching you.

No fail safe.

You gulp.

"I know you're still not telling the truth," he says, and though it dismisses several of your worries it still begs the question; how did he notice? "Just thought I'd spare you the embarrassment in front of my father, but my generosity ends there. Now I won't hurt you, and I won't tell anyone––I'm just curious."

Oh thank _fuck_. He's not going to rape you.

"I'm not Egyptian," you blurt out.

"Obviously," he interrupts, but you glare him into raising his hands defensively.

"I'm from the future."

He stares at you. For a minute. You know this because you count it––he just pauses right in his stance, doesn't move, and stares at you for a whole minute like you just told him you're made of gold.

"I'm sorry, what?" He says, laughter suddenly wracking his body.

"It's how I know what's going to happen to your family," you say, hoping he'll believe you. Otherwise this handsome, seemingly-nice man is going to think you're insane for the rest of time. "I studied your family for years as a side-hobby, I don't know how to predict the future for anything but you and your father."

His laughing pauses, or lightens at least; enough for him to say, "actually?"

"Yes," you say, completely serious. This seems to gain his interest once more. "You have to help me. I know at some point people are going to ask me questions about other things and I'm not going to have an answer."

"Just do what all our priests do," he says with a chuckle.

"What do they do?"

"Lie," he says. You can't stop the grin that spreads across your face from the stupid joke, and when he sees that a shit-eating grin spreads across his own face, delighted he could make you laugh.

"Yes, well... I guess I could do that," you mumble in a laugh.

"There's no need for you to worry. Now that I know the truth, I can help you," he says, offering you something that takes nearly all the anxiety out of your brain. After two days travel with a prince, it feels like it took 50 pounds off your shoulders.

"Thank you, so much," you chuckle in relief.

"Of course. I do have questions though, and I want you to answer them."

"Anything."

These questions of his, they come at all times––almost at a constant rate when he takes you on long walks, which he does often. He passes it off to his father as an interest in your beauty, and it apparently works. This little lie also helps you enormously in avoiding the romantic advances of many of the people you come into contact with. You're still not quite sure how it works, since Egyptians supposedly had a strong sense of patriotism, but you look rare and they idolize it. Every eye that falls upon you sees something beautiful, and you can't understand it.

At least Ahkmen is normal. He doesn't talk about you being beautiful. Ever.

And it kind of makes you sad.

"Would you say people on the whole are happier in the future or in the past?" He asks you, his words surrounded by the warmth of a summer day in Egypt.

Birds chatter loudly in the trees around you, singing in the humid air that marks the mating season for many of them. The flowers that surround you are already familiar––you thought it would take longer for you to commit the shapes and colors to memory, but here you are. Dressed in gold-laced silk and turquoise necklaces.

"I think the happiness of a population is dependent entirely on the circumstances surrounding it," you say. Sometimes your answers relate more to the human condition than the progress of time on the human race; he likes these answers, too, so you tell him exactly what you think. "Six thousand years from now, there are times of great misery. One is even called the Great Depression, but five years before that were some of the most prosperous times my country had ever seen. The same cycle is evident here."

"So.. great misery and great happiness come in waves?" He asks, pace slowing as he tries to understand what you're saying. You pause along the pathway, allowing him space to think.

"It's a pattern, actually. When the economy goes up, it will always come down. Recessions happen right after economical booms. And yes," you say before he can ask, "a time of unease will follow the prosperity of the current years. But it won't be for a time yet."

"Will it happen in my lifetime?"

He's murdered about three years from now. You think you might be able to stop it, but if you do, it'll alter history quite a lot. Either way, he wouldn't live long enough to see the recession the building of the great pyramids caused.

"No," you say. "But I'd prepare for it anyway, if only to keep your citizens safe."

"Of course. You... you are a great scholar," he tells you, resuming the slow walk down the shore of the Nile.

"Oh. Uh, thank you," you mumble as a blush fills your cheeks.

"What did you do in your time?"

"I was an artist, but I spent a lot of time giving lectures on the role of autistic people in ancient Egypt. Autistic people are often timekeepers," you say, and you know he'll figure out what you mean. Autistic isn't a term here, but many timekeepers of these ancient times were autistic, and considered highly by their societies.

"You might be able to give lectures again, if you'd like," he suggests. "People would come from far and wide to hear you speak. And you've got things to say that I know many scholars will find interesting."

"Mmm," you wince, "I kind of want to stay away from altering history too much."

"Oh, yes. My apologies," he says in a softer voice.

"It's alright," you say. "I'm glad you think I would be a good choice for that kind of thing, though."

He chuckles bashfully as he turns to the ground, scuffing his sandals as he walks.

Ahkmen is sweet––much sweeter than any of his family members, and you find yourself appreciating that every time you pass by his room. You pass his door often, always stopping a second to contemplate the tall, wooden doors. He's on the pathway between your room and the library.

Most of the time he's not in his room. Actually, you can usually find him in the library––there or outside in the markets or near the stalls. Today is different; he's been missing all day, and only when you walk the path back to your room do you hear his voice, talking to himself in his bedroom.

"They're bombarded with just such compliments, though. I can't – I can't stand out!"

"Or maybe you should, because you still haven't said a single thing yet and they probably think you're completely uninterested and that's why they aren't noticing you?"

"You and your... logic," Ahkmen spits.

"Come complaining when you kiss them under my advice."

As you attempt to peek through the crack in the door you stumble, knocking your hand against the wood. You barely hesitate before knocking again––cool and collected, smooth to slip into another lie.

"Oh! Hello, um – hi," he says awkwardly, slipping out of the room when he sees you. He quickly closes the door behind him, careful to keep you from seeing the other person in his room, but you can't bring yourself to care about the stranger.

_Think of an excuse, why am I here?_

"Oh, that's... I like your flower," he comments softly, eyes flickering between your eyes and the flower tucked into your hair. You'd forgotten about it, but raised your hand to touch the petals as you smiled. The perfect excuse

"Thank you. I thought you might like it, so I," you take it out of your hair and grab his hand, holding his palm upwards, "wanted to show you.. um, here."

Setting the flower in his hand, you curl his fingers around its' stem and push his hands back into his chest. He stares at you for a moment, confused by your strange behavior, but accepting of your gift anyway. You know him well enough now––he'd never decline a gift from you.

"A white iris," he tells you in a lofty tone. "A symbol of the dead. Funny it looks so lively on you."

You need to get out of here before your chest combusts.

"I need to go now, but I'll see you this evening, yes?" You ask, stepping instinctively closer. He doesn't back away.

"Of course. And, um," he takes your hands, keeps you where you stand as he slips the flower back behind your ear, "keep it. I want to see it on you at dinner."

He's close to you––close enough that it gets hard to distinguish his breath from your own, when you started holding his hand. When his other came up to your face. When he leans in and kisses your forehead. It's barely there, just barely, but there's no mistaking the soft plush, the affection clear behind gentle, precise movements.

You rush away the second he lets your hands go.


	41. Ahkmenrah – The Iris pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you think too hard, and you oh so often do, you can barely look at the prince without guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some heavy petting shit going on here again

The once-weary ache in your hand has turned to muscle. Weeks of practice every day, the careful carving of hieroglyphs on limestone plates has allowed that. When with your teacher you study in the library, going out on small expeditions to visit local temples where he reads you the words, and you copy down each word of it. On your own, you study on the roof of the tavern you like. It's quiet up there, quiet and far away from the man you can't bear to greet anymore.

You still eat dinner with him, though. He tries to talk to you but conversation is overwhelmed by the Pharaoh, and you make no effort to continue speaking with him. At the end of every dinner you rush away. He's lovely and all, but... he makes you nervous. The way he sees straight through any lie is terrifying on its own, but combining with it the fact that he's handsome _and_ kind? Intimidating. Too perfect. You can't disturb that.

Fortunately for you, your confidence has increased tenfold in this time. Almost every time you go out you can notice people's eyes on you, and most times they come with a comment, sometimes polite and other times crude. You can handle yourself, though.

On your nightly walk back to the palace from the tavern, you contemplate the tavern owner and his son. Both of them are rather nice to you despite not knowing you're a palace official. It makes you smile, just a little bit, and you recall the way the boy stammered in your presence.

God, you need to get a bit of a hold on yourself. It's just so hard around so many pretty boys.

Part of you knows you're avoiding Ahk because of his oncoming death date. Part of you knows you don't really care about anything as much as you care about him and that approaching day.

Part of you knows that's not healthy.

There's a knock on your door and you already know it's the young prince. You glance to your window, eyes wide as you contemplate climbing out of it. Eventually you realize that's not a possibility, and you make your way to the door, slowly opening it to reveal the patient eyes of your friend. A friend you haven't talked to in at least a week.

"Oh, good. You're here. May I come in?" He asks you with an air of uncertainty, a soft blush already coating his cheeks.

"Um.. yeah. Of course," you say quietly as you open the door further, quickly shutting it once he enters.

"I've noticed you haven't had much free time as of late," he says. Instantly your face burns, embarrassed by your own behavior.

"Yes, I'm sorry about that," you say, sitting down on the long, soft carpet. "Class has me very busy, and then I'm off studying, just..."

"And the free time you do have," he says, kneeling down in front of you _too close_ , "you spend running away from me."

Ah, fuck.

"Why do you do that?" He asks in sincere curiosity, a yearning softness evident in his eyes. "Do I no longer amuse you?"

His hands are set on either side of your seated hips, leaning in just perfectly, enough to ghost his breath over the soft of your skin. You're already leaned back about as far as you can go––stretch more and you'll end up with your back on the floor, him towering over you.

Would that be so bad?

You shouldn't want this. Shouldn't _need_ this, but his own desires taint every breath, follow every blink. The adoration you hold for him is reflected in his own adoration for you. It makes you sick, the fact that you know he will die soon, that you're holding back happiness to spare your own hide.

You move and he moves––lean back and he follows. Lean forward and he'll stay where he is, allowing you to move close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin. The tension in your arms gives out as you land on the plush bundle of blankets and pillows beneath you. He doesn't hesitate; shifts himself so he's fully above you, moves to his elbows so he looms right above your face. His chest presses against yours, even breathing giving way to your uneasy up-and-down pattern, caught up in the thrill of his smallest graces.

"Why are you avoiding me?" He asks once more, ever so soft, with fingers trailing down from your temple to your jawline. There's a genuine sadness in his eyes that makes him look exactly like a kicked puppy and you hate it.

There's no answer you have that doesn't sound stupid. Even the truth sounds ridiculous. So you turn away from his gaze, cheeks burning red, and try to ignore the tender way his eyes rake your skin, always ending on your lips.

In your silence he moves, shifting his legs and dipping his face into the crook of your neck. He can't help himself. There you feel him move against you––the plush of his own lips on the sensitive parts of yourself, sending hot tingles into your hands and feet. You only feel the bottom half of your body again when you realize he's wedged one of his legs between yours, and he's pushing it up into you. _Grinding_ it against you.

A sharp gasp leaves you at the realization.

"Do you know how hard it is to keep myself from you?" He mumbles, tugging gently at your neat hair. "I have to fight myself not to hold your hand."

"Wh – what?" You ask so softly, so shakily, both of you barely recognize the word.

"To keep from kissing you," he continues, a soft moan pressed onto your collar as he tries to thrust into nothing, "from holding you, and –"

He stops himself before he reveals anything more, a stifled groan coming from him.

" _Fuck_ , A – aahhh!" You interrupt his name with yet another unexpected moan that comes with a sudden jolt of pleasure.

Instantly your hands go to his hair, pulling with a tension that runs all throughout your limbs, scratching at the carpet blankets and pushing yourself upwards against him. You can barely control yourself, but the pulsing beat of your heart keeps you grounded. You did _not_ expect this to happen when you woke up this morning. What even is this?

Guilt sends a strike of pain through your chest, and suddenly it's hard to breathe. He's on top of you and it's too hot.

"Ahk," you murmur, tugging at his hair for his attention. When he raises his head he moves closer, and you press a kiss to his temple before forcing him away from you. "I can't – I can't do this."

"Why not?" He asks, apparently taking that as another invitation to try and kiss you. He moves forward, almost encircling you before you carefully unwind yourself from him. There's nothing you want more than to give in.

"I just – I can't tell you, but I... I have a good reason," you say.

He pauses, lets the words sit in the air as he scans you in your disheveled form.

"Then let me hold your hand," he asks of you, a request that takes you by surprise.

You fall silent, brow still kinked with worry, and wonder why he would ask that. The last time you brushed a guy off, you were living in L.A. and he stormed out.

"Please?"

He's still looking at you expectantly with wide, needy eyes.

Slowly your hand falls upon his, drawing against the veins and bones of the back before he twists it around, your palms falling together. His fingers draw up your skin and intertwine with your fingers, thumb gently stroking the side of your hand. You've still got dust on your hands from the shavings of limestone tablets.

"You confuse me," he says, gaze flickering up from your intertwined hands to you.

"I'm sorry, I –"

"It's alright," he says. "I know... it must be hard to adjust to such a time change."

Oh. That was hardly on your mind. A heavy sigh falls from your chest, your head leaning till it falls on his shoulder. You hardly have the energy to speak. Things are weighing heavy on you again.

"Would you come on a walk with me?"

You're tired. You've been standing nearly all day, craning your neck up at hieroglyphs carved too high on the walls and repeating their patterns.

"Of course."

Even as the sun disappears from the land it's warm. A gentle wind blows at your hair, and you bundle yourself a little tighter when he leads you into a thick grove of trees. They tower above you, blocking out the stars with long leaves, shadowing away the light of a full moon. Humid air surrounds you, sticking to your skin the closer you grow to the Nile.

All he can think of is you, his hand still in yours with the scent of your perfume trailing after you. All you can think of is him, the image of him covered in blood and lifeless. The sick in your stomach almost takes away the exhaustion in your limbs but it's not enough.

"I'm gonna sit down," you mumble, almost slur as you plop down on a patch of sand encircled with reeds and bushes. He follows after, helping you lean up against the trunk of a palm tree.

"Are you feeling alright?" He asks as he slides in next to you, allowing your head to once more rest on his shoulders.

"I will," you say. "Jus'... stay here with me. Please."

He doesn't understand what's got you so jumpy, so changeable, and so obviously stressed. He tries to know but can't without asking you questions. You're clearly not up for them, especially when you fall asleep right there, hugging his arm tight to your chest. About ten minutes later and he's passed out as well, his head leant against yours.


	42. Josh Washington – The Marriage of Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The circumstances of your meeting are preposterous and sound like absolute lies. The trail of deceit and murder that follows you after is even more so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah, me writing a story that could possibly becoming a series that’s not about ahkmenrah? fucking unheard of

Rain batters down on you, soaking through your jacket and to your skin. The scrapes and tears on your knuckles burn with the cold, bundled into a tight fist as you ran, looking over your shoulder every time you turn. With the puddles scattered across the pier wood, you fall into a slip that scrapes the skin off your knee. You hiss as you jump back to your feet, paying the biting sting no mind as you continue onwards, blinking away the rain that fall upon your eyes.

Your heart pounds as you catch sight of an unlocked stall. Shouts and the light of a flashlight still follow you––instinctively you bolt towards the red and white stall, vaulting over the counter and slipping right underneath it.

There's someone beside you.

Instantly the pocket knife hidden in your glove ends up in your hand, fingers expertly flicking it open till you hold the blade against a warm neck gasping in breath. He looks in the same state as you––tired, filthy, wet, and completely out of breath. The difference is the type of fear in your eyes. Yours is of a known fear; you've done this before, run from cops and hidden yourself away. His eyes display a new fear––a fear of death.

"Don't say anything," you hiss out, and he's shellshocked enough to follow your command.

Footsteps sound loud on the pier, the vibrations reaching you and tightening your fingers into your palm. You bite into your cheek, eyes never leaving the stranger's as the flashlight cast its' gaze elsewhere.

"(Y/N)," you whisper, holding out your other hand for him to shake, while still keeping one hand holding your knife against him. You won't move it––just need him to do what you say without question for a single, hot second.

"... Josh," he breathes out, taking your hand and shaking with a weak grip. "Did he try to kill you too?"

Your brain opts out for a second to try and decipher what it is he's saying. Cops are bastards but generally they don't immediately try to kill you.

"What?"

"The – the guy with the axe. You didn't..? The hell are you hiding from?"

"The cop, obviously," you say, but he just squints his eyes in confusion.

The both of you stare at each other for a moment––fortunately you both stay quiet, and if there are any footsteps around you, they're muted by the downpour.

"Okay, just to clarify, this isn't a cop with an ax?"

"No," you say.

"Okay," he says with a deep, shaky breath, breaking eye contact with you to stare at the ground. "I need – we _both_ need to get the fuck out of here."

"Absolutely agree, questions later," you say immediately. He seems a decent enough person––a little scared, but you're happy to form a temporary alliance to get out of here. Besides, if what he says is true, you can't just leave him here.

It takes a second since both you and the floor are wet, but you manage to move onto your knees, allowing you to just barely peek your head over the counter. Your grip on your pocket knife loosens as you find nothing. Just the rain pounding and totally obstructing your field of view.

"Looks okay," you mumble to him, moving back beneath the counter.

"Do you know which way's the shore?"

"Yeah.. jus' came from there. This way," you say.

You motion him forward and he follows, adopting your posture of staying low to the ground. It's far easier to stay hidden in the rain––the fog alone eradicates your shadow, and the rain gives you silent footsteps if you sneak. As you move you look every which way, constantly scanning your surroundings for any sign of movement. Waves lap at the support beams of the pier, splashing sea water up to your feet, and instantly you're reminded this is a _storm_. Of course the waves are going to be massive. That's why the pier was locked off.

Tremors course through the wood beneath you, rocking your balance as Josh, still behind you, whimpers and slips. You take his hand and pull him to his feet.

"C'mon," you mutter, pushing him in front of you.

He leads the way now that you've pointed him in the right direction––that way you, the one with the knife, can make sure he's safe. Your breath comes out in pants as you try to keep up with his faster pace. Anxiousness fuels him, evident in his shaking fingers and wide, panicked eyes.

The black gates are visible now, and soon you're standing in front of them, pushing him up over the side before climbing it yourself. You land beside him with a huff, looking back for any sight of either of your aggressors.

"Let's get the hell out of here," he says to you, sure to keep his voice quiet. You nod before leading the way.

What comes first are lights––lights of the city, shining even in the fog so thick you can feel condensation on your tongue. Every one of your pants draws water into your mouth. Your shoes slosh with every step, but the sound of massive waves crashing beneath you drowns out everything. You've managed to keep these things to your advantage––a murderer would give you no such nicety.

Despite mostly being in the clear, both of you are rather safe than sorry in this situation. Both of you keep low to the ground, look over your shoulders every other second, and constantly check to make sure the other is still there. Your heart is pounding against your chest and his nerves are screaming.

The sound of a running chainsaw stops you dead in your tracks. Neither of you can see anyone, but your reaction is instant. He runs to you, cowers next to you with his hands wrapped around yours, but you can't really say anything––you're doing the exact same thing. No one is here but the grinding continues, louder and louder, and you're out in the open. This early on in the pier there's no buildings in which to hide––all that's left is to hope it's not coming from the direction of land.

It's coming from the land.

He steps out of the mist, movements laced with malice and cold eyes trained on you. The mask he wears is like someone duct-taped skin to his face––you're not sure this is even human. His steps are heavy, each one echoing even in the storm.

You look at the chainsaw. You look at Josh. You look at the ocean and a slab of thin wood from the construction site. All of these things––you look at them, and you make a calculated guess.

Grabbing his hand in yours you force him away, out of his petrification and towards the construction site.

"Take off your jacket!" You yell over the roaring growl of the chainsaw growing nearer. The man's footsteps pound behind you, marking every step closer to you.

Josh does as he's told and you copy him. Your beautiful, vintage leather jacket adorned in paint and patches, and you throw it into the building frame. As you run past the materials pile you grab a long plank of wood, diving headfirst over the edge of the pier.

"Are you fucking insane?!" You hear from above you. Before you can answer you crash against the waves, slave to their pull and the never-ceasing torment.

"CHAINSAW!!" You yell up, the only justification you can give.

Two seconds later a shadow is growing, ending in Josh splashing in right beside you. When he emerges from the deeper water he gasps for breath, wide eyes impossibly stressed, and teeth already chattering.

"Don't let go of this plank," you tell him, feeling the cold biting you through your ripped jeans and torn shirt.

Surfing isn't something you're particularly accustomed to nor fond of, but you know how it works, and you've done it before. Sometimes the waves are tall, and it looks impossible to get back to shore with the waves breaking so close to it. Fortunately, you learned how to surf at Waimea beach, home to some of the most relentless and merciless waves around.

You have to guide him, tell him when he needs to hold his breath, when you can go above a wave and when you have to dive under. Together you both kick the short way back to the shore, a distance you believed to be short enough to be most likely non-lethal. That was the only reason you'd done this, and soon you're proved right––the shore is right there, walls of water keeping you from it.

"We're gonna get tossed around a lot," you try to get out through the saltwater in your mouth, "and if you go under, protect your head and let the waves wash you ashore. Got it?"

"What?!"

"Perfect!"

You push forward and drag him with, forcing his head underwater every time a massive wave comes up behind you. The sight of it looming above you is terrifying––a force of nature you will never be able to contend with. The current does its' job well, sucking you under and keeping you there for what feels like minutes at a time. Pressure grows in your head till your ears bleed, tons worth of water force rushing your body through the crashing waves. When you both breach the surface, you're right beside the shore, and as exhaustion calls your muscles to stop the both of you are thrown onto the rocky earth.

This place used to be sandy. Now it's littered with large, round stones. All of them are pulled up from the deep ocean by these waves, battered onto a soft shore till it's nothing but rock for miles.

God, your body aches––fighting waves nonstop has exhausted you after a long run from that policeman, and being smashed up against hard rocks has done your body no favors. The cold alone has worn against your joints, making every movement sting and throb. Your fingers no longer belong to you.

Before waves can claim you again, you lug yourself and Josh up the shore, stopping only when sand surrounds you. Then you collapse, breaths leaving you in rapid, deep pants. It takes a bit of work for you to be able to lift your head, but when you do you turn to Josh. He's in a similar state––his lips are blue with the cold, drenched hair plastered to his face just as sand sticks to his wet cheek. What matters is that he's still breathing, up and down in great, heaving breaths.

"Not over yet," you say, half to yourself and half to him.

With great effort you bring yourself to your feet, offering Josh a hand. He takes it.

"How far's your place from here?" You ask softly, looking up to the seemingly quiet pier. If all's gone well, the cop has discovered the man with the chainsaw. Whether or not the cop is alive doesn't really matter––what matters is that he's bought you time to get the _hell_ out of here.

"Up in the mountains," he says, gesturing to the mountains in the distance that tower over the city.

"Fuck. Mine's in the city but it's, like, five miles from here. No way we're making that." You're mumbling now, staring at the ground as you walk, trying to understand the way it swirls and spots from nothing to something.

"I've got.. two dollars for bus," he offers.

"I got jack."

"Who's jack?"

"... jack shit," you say under your breath. He belts out a loud, high pitched laugh that has you chuckling.

You simultaneously remember you should be staying quiet. Both of you fall silent, beginning to spare glances behind you to the pier stairs. So far you can't see anything. Your arm falls when Josh finally stands on his own, apparently over his sickness.

"Good?" You ask.

"Yeah."

The bus station isn't all that nearby, but when you arrive the bus is already there. Since you can't afford tickets, the only option left is to hitch a ride on the back, and pray neither of you fall off. This is something you've done often when in a pinch, but it's obvious Josh has never done this before. He's a bit shaky as he holds on, staring at the passing ground too intently for it to not be the first time. It doesn't help that the bus is wet with rainwater; it's not raining, or at least not as hard anymore, but both of you are still soaked to the bone.

Brakes screech to a halt in front of a red light. Here is your home––a house deep in the suburbs, with a garden crammed with statues of gnomes. Like most people you take home, he stops to stare at some of the larger statues, before quickly following you inside.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you breathe out when you finally lock the door behind you. All the tension in you breaks. It's not ensured safety, but it's a hell of a lot better than being out in the dark without anything to light the way.

"Holy shit, I am so fucking glad I found you," he says, clearly in the same state of elated relief. "Never would'a made it with two of those fuckers."

"There was two of them?"

"Oh yeah," he says with an ardent nod. "Chainsaw dude looked _totally_ different from axe man."

"God... what time is it?" You mumble, mostly to yourself as you spin on your spot, searching for any clocks. Instinctively you stop your spinning once your eyes are on the microwave.

3.42 AM.

"Do you need to get home tonight?" You ask, turning back to Josh.

"Nah. Even if I did I... shit, I just don't wanna go back out there," he says, and you fully understand.

"Don't have to. You can stay the night, my mom's not home but, uh – she'll be cool with it," you say, pulling at your soaked shirt. It looks like you just stepped out of a pool fully clothed.

Part of the see-through fabric sticks to your skin, creating uncomfortable creases of moisture along your waist and arms. Shivering from the sensation you pull your shirt off, tossing it in the direction of your room down the hall, before promptly sending your pants in the same direction. Your underwear is just as wet, but you've still got some sense of preservation.

With wet feet you pad into the kitchen, an unpleasant slapping noise following your every step. It makes you laugh, just a little––giggling while naked in front of a man you barely even know.

"Do you, um... have some clothes I could borrow?" He asks, looking jealous of your no-wet-clothing body.

"Yeah, um – jus' choose anything from my room. First door on the left," you say, pointing him down the hallway. He leaves with a quick thank you, and you're left alone in your kitchen, wondering if there's anything to eat.

While you contemplate that, you grab two glasses of water, setting one on the counter and downing the other one in one, prolonged gulp. You gasp for breath as you slam the glass down, taking only a moment to breathe before going in for a refill. Josh comes out when you're about halfway through your third glass. Your cups are pretty small and you're still shooting them down.

His grey, long-sleeved shirt has been replaced with one of your bigger black hoodies––one with an Against Me! symbol printed on the back. Blue jeans have been exchanged for ripped sweatpants that once belonged to your mom, and honestly, it suits him quite a lot better than it does you.

Dark hair that was once plastered to his forehead is now spiky, his weak attempts at drying it doing a fine job of messing up the already-mussed curls. It's now, in the bright, flickering lights of your kitchen that you note the features of his face––the full brow and gentle lips, tanned skin dotted by tiny freckles that highlight the dark of his eyes. It's as though a shadow follows him, darkening his eyelids to make way for the cold grey of his actual eyes. He sniffs and you note his nose is a little red. Probably from the cold.

"Got you some water but now that I'm thinking about it, you might be wanting somethin' else," you say with a chuckle, pushing the glass towards him anyways. He laughs softly as he takes a seat at the counter, reaching for the cup and taking a small sip.

"What've you got?"

"Coffee, hot chocolate, tea... um, beer," you say, grinning when he looses a chuckle.

"Hot chocolate."

"Perfect."

While two cups of milk and water sit spinning in the microwave, you race back to your room to get dressed. Most of your clothes are strewn about the floor, but very separated from the wet pile of clothes in the corner that has to belong to Josh. There's about a minute on the microwave––gives you little time to consider fashion, so you pull on a nearby kilt and a massive Dead Kennedys shirt. You have a fancier kilt elsewhere, gifted to you by an uncle, but the red and black stripes is the nearest one.

He laughs when he spots you. Eyes bulge and gawk as he bursts out in giggles, apparently finding much amusement in your dress. You grin, happy to be humorous, and make a funny crab-like walk towards him.

"Do you like my fashion sense?" You ask, rushing over to the microwave when it beeps loudly.

"Fuckin' amazing," he chuckles lowly, shaking his head.

Once you're done mixing in the hot chocolate powder, you set one of the cups in front of him, taking a seat on the counter with your own mug in hand. Already the both of you have found intense comfort in each other––the bonding powers of shared fear are stronger than one would imagine. 

"What were you doing out there?" You ask, tilting your head slightly when he looks up to meet your eye.

"What, you mean getting chased by a lunatic?"

"Yeah, that whole thing. We said we'd talk about this later and it's later, and I'm honestly very curious," you say. It's definitely not a lie––you've been thinking about this ever since you were too exhausted to speak, which was on the walk to the bus stop.

"I was, um, out with some friends, jus' getting drunk and all that," he says, looking down as he tries to recall the details. "Got separated from them at the bar when they left without me. Tried to find my phone, couldn't find it, and uh––you know that churro cart they have on the pier?"

"Oh, yeah. Really good."

" _So_ good. I got hungry and tried to go there, but this guy started following me. When I got to the pier I looked and he had an axe, and I just... ran. He was literally at the entrance to the pier, so I couldn't go that way, and um – then I found you," he says.

"Sounds unpleasant," you say softly, to which he mutters a quiet agreement.

"What about you?" He asks, sipping through hot steam. "What was happening with that whole cop thing?"

"God. A _minor_ offense. I was up on the church roof, the one in downtown. Must've been too loud or somethin' cause next thing I know, this dude is yelling at me from the sidewalk. I pull the _fuck_ outta there cause I don't need another thing on my record, and uh, yeah. Ran to the pier and found you," you say, nudging his shoulder with your fist.

"Glad you found me," he mumbles, shaking his head in disbelief.

"So am I. I don't think that's the first time those two have done something like this. They seemed pretty experienced," you say.

"There haven't been any reported murders, though," he mentions, to which you nod.

"Yeah, but people go missing. It's not as hard as you think to hide a dead body."

"And you know this how? From experience?"

"No," you laugh, "television."

"Ohhh," he nods with a smile. "Makes sense."

You take the last sips of your hot chocolate with mild disappointment that it's gone so soon. Once finished you set the mug on the counter, hopping down and making your way back around the counter. Josh finishes shortly after and you take his mug, cleaning them up in the sink as he wanders, looking around your living room.

"Do you think we should tell the police?" He asks, turning back around to face you when the water shuts off. You reach for the towel, drying your hands as you meet his gaze.

"You can," you say, "but I am staying as far away as I can from those fuckers."

"I get that. Maybe I should do it anonymously," he says thoughtfully.

"You can do what you want. I'm going to get high and try to forget about everything that happened tonight," you say, making your way back to your room.

"May I join you?" He asks in a deep, rolling British accent that sounds too silly to be genuine.

"'Course, man," you say, and he runs on over to you, a bright smile on his face.

"Can't wait to forget absolutely everything."


	43. Ahkmenrah – The Ivory Haunting pt. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note: this starts off kinda spooky and depressing but theres also some heavy petting shit going on

They come to you at any moment. Terrorizing your normal life. You hadn't considered this, hadn't even _thought_ of it becoming reality, but it's true and clear enough to see by now.

It's ripping you apart, slowly. You're not really supposed to be here, but are you even yourself anymore? When had the change occurred when you were no longer familiar in the mirror, when you expected nails doused in Egyptian blue rather than the plain ones on your hands? Sometimes you don't respond to your name––ever since remembering the name you carried as a servant, it stuck in your head. Plaguing you. Tearing down the life you've made, duct-taping in its' place Ahk's life for you.

Memories can make you sick, and they often do, striking you anytime something remotely reminds you of something you used to know. Unlike the first time it happened, you can't seem to stay fully conscious. Now you're missing the feeling of blacking out – it's safer than when you collapse to the floor, waking up with bile in your mouth.

How dreadfully pathetic you've grown.

You barely sleep but can't seem to stay awake, desperate for rest but unable to reach it. Most food doesn't sit well in your stomach––for the past five days you've eaten three pieces of toast and drank your weight in water. Fortunately it doesn't physically show all that much, so it allows you an excuse as to why you still won't tell Ahk. He doesn't notice. He doesn't need to, and it's not important.

Your laugh is quiet, and rare these days, so it delights Ahk when you do. By now he's noticed your anxiety––he's horribly protective of you, but he understands what boundaries are. Just wants what will make you happy. So he spends time making sure there are more people in the room than just the two of you, moving the pressure of conversation off you. When he does want to speak to you alone, he takes you on these long walks.

It's cold as fuck.

Sleet lines the sidewalks, wet and slimy and full of dirt spiralling off car wheels. It can't even be called snow anymore––it's just a slush, but fortunately the actual sidewalks are still walkable. Like most evenings these days the streets are empty, barren of conversation and a social desert. That's what's safe, but it still puts you on edge. The only other movement ––cars included––is a man about a block in front of you, smoking something beside the only open store; a Tesco.

"Whoof," Ahk says as you get closer, his hand sneaking up around your waist to pull you closer. You don't trust that guy either. "That.. is very strong."

"What is?" You ask softly, looking up at him.

"That smell. I think it's what he's smoking. Can you not smell it?"

"No," you say, though you don't particularly mind. Tobacco isn't an all-too pleasant smell.

"You'll see soon, we'll have to pass him anyway," he mumbles, rubbing circles into your side with his thumb when he feels your shoulders tense.

You step slightly into Ahk's side as you pass the smoker, your mask already on from the moment you saw him. Ahk doesn't wear one––which is fair, since he's already dead and can't _get_ sick––but this man doesn't seem like he cares whether or not you have a mask. You avert your eyes as you pass him. He does the exact opposite; stares at you, blowing a hefty cloud of smoke into your face.

That's not tobacco. Not at _all_. You can't even tell what it is, but it makes your vision spot out, head swirling in your skull as you lose your balance. Your eyes shut the moment you try to blink.

"Don't pay attention to him," he whispers against your temple, barely having to move with you pressed against his side.

What little sunlight gets through the tented room is turned a vibrant red, casted onto the carpet with swirling designs. They reflect from the tapestries hung on the ceilings, drooping just slightly and lined with knotted fringes. The doorway is made of the same thin cloth, a tiny crack between the two flaps letting pure sun seep in, illuminating the smoke dancing just below the ceiling.

The whole room is shaped in a circle, allowing a ring of seats, all of which are taken up by people you don't know. The prince knows them––or he _says_ he knows them––but that in no way comforts you. Just because he's nice doesn't mean the people he knows are. They certainly don't seem nice, eyeing you up and gauging your thoughts, sizing you down to what they can get away with. It's a look you're familiar with; you got a lot of them when you were on sale, sat outside in the boiling sun all day till your skin cracked.

And suddenly you're property again. Time with Ahk sort of... made you forget about that. You're not sure if that's a good or a bad thing.

While some of the smoke in the small, humid room is coming from burning incense, the majority of it is coming from a strange glass and metal mechanism the men are handing back and forth. The smoke isn't all that thick like the incense, but the smell is pungent––unlike anything you've smelled before, which is strange, since according to Ahk it's a plant he gave you once.

He hasn't told you what it is he's smoking, giving you that single hint before falling quiet with a sly, mischievous smile. When the mechanism is handed to him he doesn't hesitate––sets his lips upon the mouthpiece and intakes a deep breath. He fiddles with something on the side that you can't see before letting go, a long breath tainted with heavy smoke leaving his chest. It spins in the air, curls in the rays of sunlight, dancing in a way that shouldn't be beautiful but mystifies you.

Their eyes are still on you. Your chest constricts, mind telling you that you mustn't move, too terrified of making the wrong one. Even breathing is suspect as the eyes drag back up to your face, demanding you look to them.

You don't.

The soft conversation in the room isn't enough to steady your nerves, and to your immense relief the prince notices. He leans away from you, towards the man that owns the smoking den, muttering something in his ear that gets him to stand. You don't miss the bag of coin Ahk slips him, either. Though the man's eyes do fall to you for a moment he doesn't linger, calling the rest of those gathered to leave the tent.

When the last person steps out your shoulders instantly release their tension, your breathing once more returning to you.

"Better?" He asks you.

You nod. He's had his arm around the back of your seat the entire time, but without outside stimulus, it's now all you can feel. His skin is always warm, always soft, but you never give into it first. He has to initiate it. So as much as you want to lean into him and rest your head against him, you don't.

"Have you ever smoked?" He asks, reaching forward to put the glass contraption back in his lap.

"No," you say. "What is it?"

"It's... a mix of things. Won't do much but calm you down," he assures you, and though you know that's probably not the whole truth, you allow him to hand it to you anyway.

It's a little heavy––the weight is unbalanced, but Ahk helps balance it in your lap, instructing you with his hands in how to use it. When you take in the smoke––or is it vapor?––it slides hot down your throat, drying you out and swelling in your lungs. A long sigh allows the smoke to leave you, plumes of it coming from your lips and drifting up into the low ceiling. You don't cough but you do need water.

"See?" He says. "That was a very smooth draw. I'm impressed."

You blush a bright red at the compliment, visible even in the dim of the room, and he doesn't even give you the courtesy of hiding his reaction. He chuckles softly, leans over and presses a kiss to your temple before taking in more smoke.

Two more draws and you're feeling it heavy on your skull. There's pressure around your chest, like you're being squeezed, but it's a pleasant sensation. A bit like being hugged. Everything else is just warm––dry on your tongue, hot on your cheeks and down between your thighs. You shift in your seat, hoping to relieve some of the pressure without giving anything away. How inappropriately your body reacts to something simple in the presence of the Prince.

"You're very quiet company," he notes softly, and you can feel his eyes on the top of your head. Slowly you turn, meeting his almost concerned gaze. "Do you ever have anything on your mind? You can speak freely around me."

_Now_ he has to ask you what you're thinking about? Now of all times? Couldn't have done it when the two of you were staring at the stars, or when he took you by the riverside––it has to be now, when all you can think about is the places on you he hasn't touched, places that burn with desperation to be touched for once, away from the hunger affection's absence has given you.

_Now_.

"My mind is... a little... not alive right now," you say in slow, enunciated words that shake on your lips.

"Ah, yes," he says as though he understands, and considering how familiar he was with smoking, you're sure he does. But he lets out a soft sigh as he speaks, leaning into you as you press your back against a wall of cushions, allowing him to rest his head upon your chest. "I understand perfectly well. Blue lotus can do that. Mmm..."

He drifts off, words falling flat as he moves against you. Not once does he stop––just keeps shifting till he's wedged gently between your legs, lips on your collar. It isn't quite fear that courses through you, though it is familiar in a way that should be frightening. Just the touch is familiar, and with each grace you can feel echoes in your mind of other times you were touched in such ways. Times where you didn't have a choice. His fingers run down your back, and now he feels the marks of whips.

He's felt them before. When he feels them again, his kisses are softer, sweeter on your skin than anyone before ever cared to do. Your heart beats out of its' chest but you know you can make him stop. You find you don't especially want to––that heat between your legs couples nicely with the feel of his hips on yours, pushing and grinding against you until a moan falls unwillingly from your mouth.

Too good––your body shakes at simple stimulation, too sensitive just from his hand climbing lower against your waist. You breathe in sharply each time his fingertips brush your skin. It's then that he rests his palm on your knee, climbing upwards on the skin of your thighs. You know he can feel your nerves––it practically burns you, but he chuckles, rumbles warm against your chest as he just climbs higher. The tip of his thumb reaches your heat and you jump, shocked at the sudden gentle touch.

"Breathe, my love," he murmurs right in your ear, low and sweet and oh so assuring. "Breathe."

Your eyes flutter shut, darkness encompassing you as his touch turns cold.

"(Y/N)? Breathe, please," he pants out, hands unable to choose which part of you to hold; your face, your hands, your waist. You open your eyes and the stars are above you, muted by a bright streetlight.

"Ahk?" You mumble, half-slurred in your half-conscious state. There’s a piercing freeze around you.

"There you are," he says, relief staining his eyes with tears when he pulls you into a tight hug, practically ripping you away from the cold ground and into his touch. You melt into him––of course you do.

"Shit, I'm sorry man," says a strange voice, rough and soft-spoken. You turn away from Ahk, finding the smoking man above you, his cigarette put out on the ground a few feet away. "Didn't know you had asthma. You should probably get that checked out, could'a died without an inhaler."

"Why.. didn't I, then?" You ask quietly, still unable to fully keep your balance.

"I had an inhaler," another voice says. Over Ahk's shoulder there's yet another stranger, but this one has a mask. "Don't worry about the germs, I disinfected it before we used it," he assures you.

"Thank you," you mutter.

You sway even in your seated position, counting on Ahk to catch you, which he does. Your head lolls onto his shoulder as he moves to his feet. Before leaving he thanks both strangers––even the one who caused it, since he's nice––and keeps you close as the two of you head back to the museum.

"You didn't tell me you have asthma," Ahk says, one arm still set protectively around you.

"I don't," you answer hoarsely.

"Oh. Then what do you think caused it?"

"Maybe it's the scent," you say, as nothing rings clearer in your mind than the scent of burning blue lotus.

"Makes sense. The man––he told me he was smoking blue lotus. Have you ever been around that before?"

There’s your trigger right there, then.

"... no," you say. It's technically true; you, as yourself, in this body, have never been around it.

"I'll make sure to keep it away from you, now that we know. Alright?"

"Yeah, um.. yes. Thank you," you mumble, leaning into him with eyes that can't seem to stay open.

"Of course, my love."


	44. Elliot – My Lover Lives In My Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request: another request lmao. perhaps an elliot/the mastermind x reader where reader is one of his alters/hallucinations who he falls in love with but at the end he realizes they're not real? a little angsty but not too much cuz it's sad girl hours over here.

Is this what people feel?

Is this what touch feels like to unmarred skin?

His heart pounds against his chest, beats against the ragged breaths that leave him vacant and aching. Something needs to happen––the shiver in his fingertips must be satiated, the need for lips on his satisfied. Otherwise he will exist like this forever––yearning for something, unable to reach it, tangled up in the bedsheets he never actually left.

" _Shhh, darling_ ," you whisper in the sweetest of tones, your voice that echoing hum that ricochets off the empty walls of his mind. There's hands on him, running down his chest, tugging on his hair, pulling at his clothes and dipping beneath his skin. "I love you."

God, it's been forever since he last heard those words. Not that he particularly missed them; it's just... it's been a while. It doesn't feel like they mean anything anymore. Your touch does, though––it means everything to him when you speak these words against his forehead, soft lips wrapping him up in affection he no longer recognizes. Nothing can mean more than this, this closeness to another, the comfort found in those you've known longer and better than you've known yourself.

He jolts awake with a start, sitting straight up in bed with his eyes wide open. They burn from the cold air of his apartment, stinging his bare skin as the covers fall off his chest, landing onto your weary body whose arms cling to his middle. Your cheek is pressed tight against his stomach, and the soft mumbles falling from you indicate he's already woken you up.

"El," you mumble, resituating yourself so you're once more hugging him tight, "did you have another nightmare?"

"No, I..." he shifts, rests his head back down on his pillow. "Just exciting. Nothing to worry about."

"Alright," you whisper, but even your whisper is barely there as you land a sleepy kiss on his stomach.

The dark of midnight makes way for rest once more. In the morning though, when he awakes, you aren't there. His bedsheets are all twisted around him, a product of an unpleasantly dream-filled night.

You must be off at work. It's a little ways into the morning, after all.

His own work takes up the usual 9 to 5 hours, and by the time he gets home he's wound up tighter than a boxer's fist. Anxiety is flush in his veins––the smallest mistakes and movements can set him off, and every movement he makes is violent and curt. Rolling up a joint proves hard, but in the end it's worth it, feeling the familiar taste of smoke drift out of his mouth.

Halfway through his joint, the door opens and the sound of your keys jangles from the doorway.

"Hello darling," you say as you pass by him on the couch, quickly pausing to kiss the top of his head. "Rough day at work?"

"Isn't it always?" He replies in a soft grumble, but you give his attitude little recognition.

Once you finish setting down the couple of things in your hands––water bottle, phone, keys, pocket knife––you kneel beside him on the floor, putting your chin on his knee as you look up at him with puppy eyes.

"What do you want me to do?" You ask softly. You always ask.

"Scratch my palm. Please."

"... alright," you say, hesitation grasping you for only a second before you obey. This command, though odd, is one he's give you before––he needs stimulation. Something to pay attention to that isn't his coworkers, his boss, or the stupid fucking company his team is working for.

You don't go as rough as he does when he scratches himself, but it's enough to leave red streaks after a minute or two. When he's doing it to himself, he can feel the skin begin to peel away, making way for angry, red scars that nearly bleed with how close he gets to completely scrubbing away his skin layer.

The kiss you leave on his palm when you finish calms both the nerves and the stinging sensation. At this point you've probably kissed every part of him––it's a strange love language of yours that he adores to no end. A kiss that speaks words every time it happens. It is in every way better than the words he can't seem to get out right.

It's midnight and he's high on morphine, the final threads of his weed high fading out as he stares at the ceiling immobile. His freezing skin needs you––needs your warmth, your weight, your breath on his chest, and you're nowhere to be found. He's scanned the whole apartment and tried to call you, to no avail.

He needs you more than he needs air.

Where the hell are you?

By the next morn he's forgotten the panic and dread of the night before. Your voice stirs him into being; "my love, my dearest, my beautiful," all like honey in his head. Slow. Sweet. _Warm_.

His eyes drift blearily open, still staring at the ceiling above him. There is no one at his side, no warmth that had comforted him, no words that had awoken him.

A song plays in his thoughts all day, going on repeat time after time, often going over the same verse and chorus multiple times in one go. He grits his teeth and tries playing other songs––plugs his earbuds into a phone and blares it loud as he can, but it doesn't leave. The words repeat again and again and again, and he's not even sure if they're the right lyrics. It's just constantly there, and he hates it, and he needs you. He hasn't felt your touch in what feels like eons, though it's only been around a day.

It is much in a way similar to the feelings of love perceived by robots. Not so much of an I-miss-you; more like a 'I'm used to your presence, and your absence disrupts my routine'. His heart bleeds all over his ribs as he thinks of you, stuck in his cubicle.

You appear over the grey wall of his desk, making no sound as you take his hand. He doesn't protest––of course he wouldn't––but confusion does befall him as you lead him away from the stuffed business room.

Questions grow only more specific as you take him into the bathroom, pushing the both of you in before locking the door behind you. It's one of those unisex bathrooms, so there's a decent amount of space, but you crowd him into the corner anyway.

"I need you, El," you murmur, soft pants leaving you as you push your body against his.

He gasps sharply at the touch of your fingers crawling beneath his shirt, pulling it out of his tucked pants and not bothering to unbutton it. No, you're much more hurried––you need this now, and you won't bother yourself with anything else until you get it.

You fall to your knees, grasping and fiddling with the button on his jeans until it pops open. A small smile comes to you, growing when you palm at his member and a moan tumbles from his lips.

"I've been thinking about you," you say, though it's obvious you barely have the space of mind to speak since you're now mouthing at his clothed cock, "and I need you."

Only when your teasing has brought him to constant moans and grunts do you pull down his boxers, allowing a sigh of relief that he's no longer constrained. You just grin like a cheshire cat, a cat who got the cream, and press wet kisses all up and down him. He tangles his fingers into your hair, pulling when you tease him beyond his limit.

"Don't fucking –"

You cut him off with your lips wrapping around his head, bringing a burning hot satisfaction that fills up his whole body. When you get a long, sweet moan from him, you pop off the head, instead mouthing down his shaft.

"Don't what, baby?"

"Fuck," he grits out, his grip on your hair tightening slightly when you reach the base.

The kiss you plant at his tip is dwarfed by the sensation of you once more taking him in your mouth, sliding your tongue over the parts you can reach and slowly moving further down. It takes a little bit of work, but eventually you can take the whole of him, sucking him down to his base in a movement that he swears could kill him with pleasure.

"I'm sorry for doing this during your work," you say softly as you pull off him, continuing to stroke him with your right hand. "I just got to thinking about you and I missed how you taste. I miss the way you fuck my mouth."

"That's what you want?" He asks, still having trouble controlling his vocal cords.

You nod, almost shyly as you look up at him, your cheek rested against his hip.

"Open up, then," he says, voice dipping low as lust laces his gaze. You obey with innocent eyes, so willing to please him, so ready to receive all he can give you.

He thrusts himself in side you, forcing his cock down your throat as you try not to gag. You're tight––always tight, always warm, always eager to swallow around him and trace veins with your tongue. With his hand in your hair, he keeps your head still, using you as he would any other toy. You love this. Even the tears on your cheeks.

He speeds up as he gets closer to his finish, his thrusts deep with the head of his cock usually ground up against the back of your mouth. The twitch of his approaching orgasm tells you to work all the harder, sucking him in deeper, eagerly awaiting the feeling of warm cum dripping down your throat.

Just as you wanted, he finishes in your mouth, and you faithfully swallow every bit he has to give you. Tight elation fills up his chest, remnants shivering throughout his body as he watches the string of saliva that connects your panting mouth to his cock.

Unable to bear even such short of a distance, he drags you to your feet by your hair, smashing his lips against yours in a kiss that could bruise his skin.

" _I love you_ ," you murmur between the breaths you can get, returning his fervor with the same excitement and need he bears for you.

This is nothing more than intoxicating.

Upon opening his eyes he finds himself sitting on the bathroom counter alone, another joint in his hands that really shouldn't be there. The fan is on, but the smell is still going to linger, though he hardly cares anymore. He could be fired in the next hour and it doesn't matter.

"I want you to look at me," he hears. Another blink and he's home––the same joint in his hands, a little burnt out, but that's not what's on his mind. What's on his mind is you, the weight of you sitting on his lap, your hands holding his face.

"I am," he says.

"You know I love you," you whisper, and he feels your words on his skin. He nods. "I will always love you. No matter what. You will occupy my mind, and I will always want what's best for you. Don't forget that, will you?"

"Of course not," he says through a lump in his throat. When did he get here and what are you talking about?

"I want you to look through me," you say softly, already regretful of something that hasn't yet come to pass. "Can you do that for me?"

"Yes," he says, but his voice cracks.

_"Look through me."_

Through your head is a crack in the wall. Through your chest is his TV, and through your hips is his lap.

He looks back up to meet your eyes but finds nothing. There is nothing on him––no pressure, no warmth, and it's now he realizes his apartment is freezing cold. His fingers are numb with it, encased with the harsh winter creeping through the cracks in his windows. Everything is cold, and there is no sign of you.

How fitting for him.

How perfect, how _deserving_ , for someone like him.

The biggest fucking mess in the world.


	45. Ahkmenrah – Days That Pass As Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request: ay so i’m gonna request a couple things real fast. don’t feel pressured to do them quick or anything i just need to ask them before i forget. anyway can i get an ahk x reader where reader is a maladaptive daydreamer? only if you’re comfortable of course

He doesn't understand.

In this new world, there are a lot of things he doesn't understand––though, all of them are for good reason. This specific thing, _you_ , don't have a good reason to be beyond comprehension. You're a person. Not some new-fangled technology or theory about time and space, but a human. He's very used to understanding those.

You spend the night going about the museum, drifting from exhibit to exhibit with your eyes glazed over. He's not even sure you realize the exhibits are empty. Nothing about you suggests there's something inside, some deeper thought, at least not to anyone else. Ahk has seen it, though––the tiny motions of your lips, muttering and murmuring to yourself these words anyone else has yet to hear. They're constant, commentating on each artifact you stop at and every painting you pass.

The underwater part of the museum; where creatures as old as earth sit in petrified rock, recreations of their former splendor hanging from the ceiling. Here there are none of the warm lights he's used to from the rest of the museum. Darkness surrounds him, as it often does at night, a hazy blue glow surrounding everything. The distinct pulse of deep waters fills up his bones, but he grounds himself with concentration. Concentration on you.

You're looking up at one of the sharks, to the glinting rows of teeth and dark, innocent eyes. The image unsettles him, to say the least––the two of you are so close, your nose almost touching the glass, and the shark watching you carefully.

The heat of your murmuring is fogging up the glass.

"(Y/N)?" He asks quietly, coming up behind you with muted footsteps. It takes a second before you react, instead caught in a watery trance, unbreathing and unmoving.

When at last it processes in your head that you heard sound, and that it was coming from someone trying to get your attention, you turn to him with petrified eyes.

"Ahk, hello," you say, and the unearthly stare is gone, replaced by the sweet smile that had so captivated his attention.

"You look very deep in thought," he says, glancing up at the shark, who has since swam away. "Well, you always do, actually."

"I'm sorry," you say, but before he can assure you there's no need for you to apologize, you continue. "My mother used to tell me that a lot. I guess I never really grew out of it."

You don't actually have a mother, but he doesn't bother to correct you.

"What is it that you think about?"

Quiet follows his query, filled by your silent thoughts and the rush of water still reverberating around him.

"Another world," you say softly, almost hesitant to answer.

"Like this one?"

"A bit," you nod without much presence, your stare glazing over once more, this time directed at one of the benches in the center of the room. You don't continue and he quickly realizes you're back in that 'other world'.

He sighs, biting the inside of his cheek as he leaves you there. You don't even notice he's leaving, don't wave him good-bye, don't say a thing. What's better about your world than this one? Why can't you live here, where he is? Where he can be the one that comforts you, where all the real people are.

In your mind you're still talking to him. Telling him all the shark facts you learned from the plaque, and you're holding his hand. The real Ahkmenrah wouldn't let you do this, would he?

So you made your own version of him; called it real, decided this was where it was better to be. Absorbed in the false version of him. The one that always holds your hand. In your mind, the real-world version of him would never do that, a belief fueled by your rather dwindling sense of self esteem.

Both of you are unreachable by the other, no matter how far either of you stretch to save the other. It's not even circles you dance around each other––it's orbits, spinning so far out you can barely see one another.

What a heavenly dance you have.


	46. Josh – Punishment Sought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request: Hello hello! I have a total spanking fetish (don’t judge me). I’ve been thinking about it all day. Can I just have a detailed spanking fic with whichever Ramigo you choose. Storyline is completely up to you! (No smut, just reader doing something stupid and purely getting punished for it, and lots of aftercare cause I’m a soft b 😽) If this is out of your comfort zone I completely get it 👌🏾 Still think you’re awesome 🤩

To be fair, you were being a bit of a bitch, but it wasn't on purpose. Just the edge morning had put on you that day. He thinks you're doing it just to get a rise out of him, but by the time you catch onto that you're already aching for a punishing hand. Something to set you right. Something that will _hurt_.

"You. Are being. Impossible," he grits out, hand twisted in your hair to hold you in place. You whine softly at the sting.

"I'm not fucking doing anything!" You say in full awareness that this will only make the situation worse. Josh is slow to anything resembling anger, but God slay him if he doesn't take every opportunity to play with you.

He says nothing, just drags you from your place on his couch to his bed, releasing your hair to toss you on. The mattress squishes around you as he crawls towards you, leaning all his weight on you to keep you in place.

"How many do you think you deserve?" He asks.

"What?" You ask in genuine curiosity, the many punishments he has for you blurring.

Again he uses his actions instead of words, landing a sharp slap right beneath your thigh. Your exclamation is short lived but just as loud as usual. Even ignoring the fact that he's a good deal taller than you, his hands are large, with long fingers that _always_ know what they're doing. He knows how to get your attention.

"Um," you try to think of an answer before he can slap you again, trying your best to look past the weight of his eyes on yours. "Ten?"

"Nuh-uh baby, I think it should be a little higher," he says, trailing his fingers higher up your inner thigh, bringing a sharp gasp out of you.

"T - twenty?"

He seems to take a moment to contemplate the number, ultimately nodding and pulling himself off you. Before you can situate yourself properly he's pulling you into his lap, your waist on his legs and face dug into the bedsheets. Already your hands are twisted in the fabric, awaiting the feel of his hands on you.

At first his touch is gentle – sliding up and down your naked thighs, tracing the curve of your butt and the skin on your back. Anticipation settles itself in your head, swirling through your fantasies with pin-point accuracy. You wiggle your hips a little.

"Someone's being needy," he says in a low voice, and all touch on you ceases. You whine, burying your face back in the blankets.

"Josh, _please_ ," you beg before he can even ask you.

"Really?" He chuckles. "No, go on. Beg me to hurt you. Beg for me to punish you."

"Fuck," you mutter beneath your breath, "please touch me, Josh. Please put me in my place."

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. He doesn't usually ask you to do such direct things.

"Mmm, there you go. Such a good little slut," he says, almost whispers it in your ear before his hand is coming down fast, leaving a stinging sensation in its' absence. You lurch forward just slightly, mouth falling open with a soft moan.

He doesn't make you count – which you thank _God_ for since you can barely bring yourself to form words – but he does make sure you're still alert for all of it. He doesn't hold back either, each spank its' own feeling that burns heat throughout your whole body. From your blush to the warmth beneath your thighs and the red marks on your butt, you're practically humming with sick satisfaction.

"Ten."

_You're only at ten?_

Eleven comes a little harder than the last and you can't break down the moan you let out, so pornographic you could swear you're melting into him. The _smack_ sound that comes from the contact echoes in your ears. You fade into the touch, just slightly, appreciating the pain he gives you.

"You're doing so good for me, baby," he says, and even in your state you can hear the need that laces his tone. "Six more."

By the time he reaches 20 there's unshed tears in your eyes. This isn't the most he's ever given you, by _far_ , but it's still a lot. His praise fills the gaps in your trailing thoughts, disturbed by him moving and returning with cool lotion that he massages into your red skin. Coos and whispers of ' _you did so well_ ,' and ' _so perfect'_ come from him as he does his best to soothe the biting pain away.

When he finishes and you're curled up into his chest, he strokes your hair, letting you relax for a moment before he speaks.

"Is there anything wrong today?" He asks softly, careful not to disturb the peace.

"No, I'm okay," you mumble. "Just a bit stressed."

"Do you want me to help with that?"

"More than you already did?" You ask, shifting so you can look up at him.

A devious little smile crosses his face.

"Something in that vein of things," he says with that shit-eating grin you adore and hate at the same time.

"You're such a manwhore."

"Ouch. Says the one who loves getting spanked."

"I did say ouch," you giggle, and though it takes him a second to process the joke you're making, he does chuckle.

"I fucking _love_ you."

He says that every time you say anything resembling a pun. _Fucking doof._


	47. Benjamin – Dimly Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> request: hi ! i absolutely love your work 🥺 i’ve been having a really tough time lately in life and your fics have really helped me stay sane. i recently watched the twilight saga for the first time, so i was wondering if you could do another benjamin fic where the reader is younger transman (ftm) brother of edward with psychometry powers?

Besides Bella, you're the most modern thing in this temple. The arches that loom above every room are hundreds of years old, if not thousands, outmatched only by the altars carved carefully into every bedroom, there for any religious need any guest may have. You, though – you're about 16, both physically and mentally, as your transition had happened about three months ago. There's this joke you tell that absolutely no one gets; you say you're used to transitioning, and one more transition wouldn't hurt you.

He still doesn't know what it means.

For the most part you keep quiet, keep to yourself in your room where you do God knows what all day. It's a little funny – Benjamin is hardly ever in his room, but then again, he does have a rather strict training regime. Not that it's his choice, but it's something he must do nonetheless. During these times he thinks of the many guests in his home, joining his family during hunts, and studying in an extensive library that hides in the back of the temple.

That's where he finds you one day. Curled up on a tall ledge that you probably shouldn't be able to reach, with a large book in your hands that your face is entirely buried in. He shifts the elements around him for ease, allowing him to take a seat beside you on that tall ledge, carefully looking over your shoulder.

It's one of those books on the anatomy of vampires, one that he and his family consider a work of satire. You wouldn't know the difference, and for that he decides it's alright to interrupt, if only to give you the proper books for such knowledge.

"What is it that you're reading?" He asks, startling you out of your close concentration on the words.

"Oh, um, hi," you say, eyes switching rapidly between the book and the man beside you. "Just – just a book I found, on anatomy. I don't think it's quite accurate."

"This one isn't accurate at all," he says as he leans forward, glimpsing the front cover as if he didn't know what it was you're reading. "Would you like me to find a proper one for you?"

"That – that's not, uh, necessary. It's alright," you say with a sweet smile that brightens the anxiousness in your eyes.

He knows oh-so-little about you, he realizes, watching your mannerisms and the tone of your speech. These little things that he's gotten so used to knowing about people, it's made him accustomed to knowing the most arbitrary facts about everyone he interacts with. Now that he doesn't know, now that he's blind in his interaction – it spurs him on all the more to know you better.

The first thing he can note about you is that you're very kind, very polite, and very, very shy. He can taste your fear as he sits beside you, drifting off you in plumes that set his senses on edge. It's _intoxicating_ , and you taste just like the hunt, the trailing hormones that follow terrified prey.

"It's no trouble," he says, taking the book from you and drifting higher, where an empty slot lay that once carried that book. Once he tucks it away he comes back down to you, helping you off the ledge and onto the ground, where the more important texts are kept.

"Thank you," you mumble, keeping your gaze on the floor.

"Of course. Now what questions are you seeking to answer?"

You freeze up and instantly your panic is overwhelming, so thick in your vicinity he swears he could faint. This taste is stronger than prey, sweeter than wine's blood, and more alluring than he could ever deem appropriate.

If this is what being around you is like, he never wants to leave.

"It's a little embarrassing," you admit in a soft voice, raising your hand to your mouth to bite at your fingertips.

"I won't laugh," he says, and that seems to be of some comfort to you, though it takes a little longer before you finally answer his question.

"... everyone here has these special powers, and I.. don't. And I don't know why. I want to find out," you say, hesitance claiming your every word despite you forcing them out.

"What? I'm sure you have something. You've only been like this for.. a month?"

"Three months," you say.

"That's no time at all. How about this; I will help you find your power, and you can... help me with a favor," he suggests, but is ready to notice any doubt in your expression.

"What's the favor?"

"Just a hypothesis I have. I'm sure you won't get hurt."

That is in no way comforting to you. You stand there for a moment more, chewing on your bottom lip as you contemplate your situation.

"Alright," you finally say, "but nothing too strange."

"Of course not."

He takes you outside, leading you in close steps towards his own training grounds. In the rough terrain of the mountains, the both of you stumble over loose rocks, latching onto boulders in order to push yourself up. The top of this particular mountain is a good place for training; not a living thing in sight, plant or animal, and no one from the ground can see you.

The waterfall running off the ledge of the platform is a perfect place to start, from the caverns filled with pools of water encased in crystals, to the waterfall itself, in constant swirling motion. He stands at the side of the falls and beckons you over, watching with a smile as you make an awkward running-walk to his side.

When he falls to his knee you follow, kneeling before the rushing water.

"Can you feel the pulse of this water?" He asks, holding his own hand above it. He can feel it – pounding in his fingertips, running like blood as he raises droplets of water into the air.

"I can.. feel the vibration," you say tentatively, staring at the water with a fixed worried expression.

Vibrations aren't indicative of a power, but it's best to fully rule something out before abandoning it. Thus he takes your hand, holds it right beneath his palm as he works his own magic, making it so droplets of water rise to your palm, only to fall like rain back upon the foam. A sort of cloud forms beneath your hand, rising through the gaps in your fingers like smoke from a fire.

"Try to contain the cloud," he says when he notices the wisps of grey.

You do your best, but in the end the control you have is nothing more than a mirage borrowed from Benjamin. Still, you look rather disappointed, and he frowns. He misses your smile already, and the hesitant eagerness of your original stature.

"It's very rare for vampires to be able to physically bend the elements to their will, so don't be worried," he comforts you, pulling you up with him when he stands.

You nod absently but say nothing.

"Should we try fire?" He asks, but the second he does so you tense up, and once more pheromones are flooding his system. He steps closer to you at some point – he doesn't remember doing so, but he's pressed up pretty close to you when he opens his eyes. That only worsens it, and your taste is tangible and thick on his tongue.

"I'm – I'm good with fire, I – um – I have a, sort of, thing against, um, fire," you stumble out, taking a few shaky steps back. It snaps him out of his trance, the unpleasant warmth of shame overtaking him as he realizes what he's doing.

"That's fine, uh," he pauses for a moment, wracking his brain for what to do next. "Here's.. an easier, um, trick. A fair amount of vampires end up with this power."

"Really?" You perk up a little and relief begs a sigh from him. He didn't fuck up.

"Yes, most have a form of telepathy. Connecting to different minds, or influencing the mind to perceive things that aren't truly happening, or simply ensnaring the opponent," he comes up behinds you, rests his hands on your shoulders and dramatically mimics grasping something far away, "to command them to their bidding."

You chuckle, and your breathing begins to steady once more.

"Right, and how do you check?"

The two of you were hardly ever close and never alone together before this point, but you knew some information about each other. You know his powers – the effect he has on the elements, and just how rare that sort of power is. He knows you as Edward's younger brother, a product of the modern world, a little confusing but all around worth being confused over. You know he won’t be able to show you true telepathy.

"Just concentrate deeply. Try and move that stone," he says, motioning towards one of the smaller pebbles near the stream of water.

Your eyes drift shut as you try to follow his advice, brow furrowing in concentration. He steps closer, till his chest is at your back, and though it breaks your train of thought for a second you realize he's trying to steady your breath. With your eyes once more closed, you follow the steady rhythm of his chest.

Nothing.

"Telepathy can be a little odd, as I'm sure you know. No two versions work quite the same," he says when he notices your shoulders drop. "Here, try this."

Instead he stands in front of you, hands square on your shoulders to force your attention to him. You wait intently with open eyes and ears.

"Try and connect to me," he says, and holds your gaze as you try your best. There's a strain evident on your face – you _desperately_ want this, and every failure bleeds massive disappointment from your high expectations.

_Can you hear me?_

"Um.. y.. yes?" You answer gingerly, wondering if the words came from your own mind or his. By the way he beams you think they're his own words, and instantly a grin splits your face.

"Wonderful! That's a very helpful talent to have," he says, and you giggle, delighted by his enthusiasm for you.

Over the following hours – neither of you can tell the time with the sky so full of clouds – he goes over powers both common and rare. He gets you to try and manipulate the flame on the tip of his finger, but you can't do it. You try to create gusts of wind and it fails. In fact, the only victory you have is the mind telepathy, but it's enough to satisfy you.

As the sky begins to lighten ever so slightly, he decides time is up for now, even though there are several more things he wants to try. You tell him it's alright, but he insists; and of course you want to know more, so it doesn't take much to convince you.

He offers you his hand and says, "good work today."

You clasp his hand, but when he tries to shake you're stock still, completely spaced out. It takes a second before he even realizes what's happening, but once he does he shakes you out of it.

"Are you alright?" He asks, his brow knitted tight in concern.

"I... think I.." you pause, "I think I found a power."

"How so?"

_From shaking his hand?_ That's.. not common.

"Well, um, I just felt a very strong.. surge of emotions, directed towards me," you say, clearing your throat as nerves get the best of you.

_Oh shit_ , he thinks, and he knows you catch how his expression falls. _He's got a reading power._

"Oh," he says, and the word sits there between you for a while. "You might have, um, psychometry. The ability to read things by touch."

"I – I have to go," you stammer out, but the second you release his hand you've vanished, leaving Benjamin atop the mountain alone.

He twists each way, scanning the area for any sign of you and finding none. It's either some sort of invisibility or teleportation, either of which he's sure would excite you. Still, it's hard to taper his own disappointment in himself, which drags on his mood the entire walk home.


	48. Ahkmenrah –  Pull the Stars Out of the Sky (And Gift Them To Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new Pharaoh has a bit of an obsession problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i suppose this would technically be yandere but i really dont want to admit that i wrote yandere fanfiction about a childrens movie

He called himself a savior. His people called him a God. Thus he acted as a sort of savior God, decked in gold, more powerful than the kings of a thousand lands. He kept his friends close as he had no enemies, those in power too afraid to stand up to his might. 

It was not as though he was undeserving of this title––quite the opposite. He dug his country out of a dangerous recession that followed an invasion by the Hittites. He defended his status as Pharaoh against his tyrannical elder brother, who had attempted to claim his rightful place on the throne. He brought great prosperity to his people and maintained his image of regality, the untouchable air around him, as though the Gods truly did walk the earth in the form of him. 

Here he was, the most powerful man to walk the earth, coddling you as his fingers ran through your hair.

The decisions that brought you to this moment were poorly thought out at best and downright shameful at worst. Your home in the southeast of Africa now lay what felt like eons behind you, hazy memories of chains and scuffing, bloodied feet whirling in your head. Even in your village you knew of him––not by name, of course––and had already grown to fear him. By the time you got out of your home village and began going market to market, you knew to stay clear of him at all costs. But his dirty soldiers were everywhere, and constant vigilance brought you back-breaking stress that had your steps faltering. 

Your stumbling was what brought you here. Stumbling into prison, stumbling into a palace, stumbling into a King's chambers.

"Aren't you just gorgeous," he cooed softly, petting your head. 

The rough, uneven pull of your breath was the only disturbance in the peaceful room, bathed in warm light and Egyptian paintings. Every nerve in your body screamed to get away, to worm yourself out of his touch, but with every attempt he just held you tighter. 

"What's your name? You look hungry," he said, eyes scanning your panicked face. "Would you like something to eat?"

_Punch him. Talking to you like a dog._

You shook the thought out of your head, but the Pharaoh took it as a nod of confirmation. 

"We'll get you some food," he decided with a smile, separating from you long enough to stand and pull you up with him. 

He did not part his hand from yours, instead leading you through the long, tall hallways and their arches that painted scenes from stories you didn't know. Your past excursions to Egypt had hailed no such royalty, nor did any of your other travels. Most of the time you stayed in hostels and taverns. The grandeur and sanctity of churches and temples were as close as you got to this, standing on the cusp of a garden that stretched further than you could see, the white alabaster pillars lining your vision. 

"Come," he said, and you thought it best to try not to disobey him. "This is a food garden. You can eat anything you like."

It _had_ been a while since you'd gotten a good meal. The last thing you ate was hardtack from a tavern about a six-hour walk down the river from here. 

The Pharaoh followed closely behind as you moved forward, constantly looking over your shoulder as you scanned the different vines and bushes. It was the color that caught your eye––most of the plants along the Nile sported an olive-type green, dull and yellow-ish. Many of the leaves in this garden were a bright green, more so than moss and grass, lively and soft beneath your fingers.

Only after scanning the whole of the garden did you decide on what to eat. From blossoming flowers in the water that lined the walkway to the figs hung high on the trees, you chose plums sprouted fruitfully from a short tree.

You sat right where you stood as you began gnawing at the flesh, tangy juice dripping from your bite marks. After a moment of watching you the Pharaoh lowered himself to your height, earning a chary side glance from you. 

"What is your name, lovely?" He asked again, much softer, as he once more began to pet your hair. Most other times you would've shaken the hand off, but most other times it wasn't Pharaohs touching you. 

"Amoke," you said through a rough throat and full mouth. Your voice had remained unused since you stepped foot in jail, and it was only now that you were reintegrating its' use.

"Amoke," he repeated, nodding. "A western name. Is that where you're from?"

You nodded.

"Do you like it there?" He asked quietly.

You shrugged.

"I should like to keep you here, then," he murmured, gaze flickering to every feature on your face. You watched his interest closely.

What came to mind was that you didn't want to stay here––that you wanted to keep on the road, stay away from the permanent and escape the inevitable routine. You couldn't say that, though. Not to his face. With nothing on your mind but leaving him and his touch, you remained silent in the wake of his request. 

The sun soon set behind the garden's walls, casting long shadows that consumed the both of you without fail. When the residual light of the sky began to fade, he took your hand, paying the stickiness no mind as he led you back into the palace.

"I shall keep you in my room," he said with a firm confidence in his tone that stewed in your empty chest. "If ever you need something, just tell me. I can give you anything you desire. During the day you should stay in my room as well––it's safer that way. I'll be able to keep you safe."

_From what?_

Fifteen years travelling the world on your own and now you're forced into a single room for your 'protection.'

"My name is Ahkmenrah, though most call me by my title. 'My King,' and such. You may call me what you wish. I don't mind," he said, a smile crossing his features as he opened the door set in front of you. His eye only tore from you for a second before his attention was back, scanning the way you stepped nearer to him and into the room. 

The once-bright light of sunset had vanished in his bedroom, replaced by the eerie purple of a late dusk. Outside the balcony arches, the sky bore an ombre of plum and blush, reaching up into the dome where stars had already come to see the world.

"I know your name already," you murmured, staring out to the city. His eyes remained ever on you, burning the back of your neck. "I know you freed many of your slaves but kept worker camps in Kush. I know you intimidated every nation so severely you can do anything you want now. It's not like anyone will stop you."

"You're knowledgable," he said, taking a seat on the floor.

"Is that what's happening here?" You asked, but he didn't quite understand. At his confusion you sighed but continued. "Am I supposed to be intimidated enough by you that I will stay here of my own free will?"

He furrowed his brow, tilting his head ever so lightly to the left.

"You... don't want to stay here?"

"No. I have a life that I'd like to get back to." _Much of it being avoiding you._

"I don't understand," he said after a beat of silence. "You want to leave? But – there is nothing in the world I cannot give you here. Any riches you want, yours. Any delicacies are yours."

Ahkmenrah collected things. Already it was clear enough to see––collect and retain an image that prevents any fight against him, collect the riches of the world to give to his people and himself, collect the respect of those around him, and collect _you_. He will share with you everything he has gained if only you join this ever-growing, ceaseless collection of belongings. There is nothing stranger than being offered to become a toy.

"I prefer to keep moving. Meet new people," you said.

"You'll be safe here," he said, reaching for your hand. You instinctively pulled your hand away, but a sudden poisonous glare overtook his eye, and your heart froze in its' place long enough for him to gracefully lead you to your knees.

With you now raised on your knees, he met your height, nuzzling your cheek with his nose. 

"I don't need to be –"

"You will stay here," he said, his intensity thrumming in your nerves. Once again there was no thought more comforting than leaving this place.

He must've noticed the panicked look on your face, as his expression softened.

"Do you understand? Oh, lovely," he said in a hum, fawning over you as his touch overcrowded your senses. His nose rubbing up beneath your jaw as he nuzzled into you, his hand holding your hip tight as the other tangled in your hair. He took in your scent with deep appreciation. "Sweet darling.. pretty one."

His mumbles grew less coherent the longer he held you, dusk fading into midnight as the silence of crickets resounded in the distant flora. The tension in your chest never fell, leaving you exhausted with your stiff breaths, bags beneath your eyes begging you to fall asleep, even if it was in the possession of another.

From waking up in an underground prison to mistakenly entering a King's chambers, the day weighed heavy on your mind with little solace at the end. Still, the body has its' cravings that will never relent, and you fell asleep to the rhythm of his praising murmurs and stroking hands. 

Even hours later you awoke to arms still twisted around you, keeping you pressed tight to the warmth of the Pharaoh's chest. Hunger bit at your stomach, acid burning around the empty walls in a sweet reminder of your recent diet. Two-ingredient crackers and two plums in the last two days. You supposed that you wouldn't have to worry much about that in the future, so long as you stayed in his graces. While you doubted he would withhold food from you as punishment, you wouldn't put it past him, as it was a common jail tactic in many cities.

Wandering had been your sin for many years before this moment, and it would continue to be so whether or not you gave into the urge. Being stuck in any place––even one so comfortable as this––itched at your skin, tugged at your motionless legs and pulled at your scattered fingers. Despite your original insistence that you should stay still, your foot began to gently bounce as your fingers fidgeted restlessly. Your eyes darted every which way.

"I see you're awake," he mumbled, voice barely there in the first dregs of morning. "Stay a little longer."

Not that you really had a choice. His legs were all tangled in yours and you could barely move.

For what seemed to be another hour and a half you lay there, wondering when he would wake again and finally release you. He couldn't keep you here forever––not sleeping with him, not in this palace. It was clear he would not willingly let you go, so in the meantime ideas stirred in your head, plotting out ways to escape without his knowledge.

A knock came from the door when rays of sunlight began to touch the bedroom floor, flooding in through the arches. You wriggled when you heard the sound, disturbing Ahkmenrah from his sleepiness, which at last led to the loosening of his grip. The moment he went lax you tore yourself away.

Breath finally returned to you, the long hours of night fading away as your chest heaved an even up and down. The blankets around you fell as the Pharaoh stood, making his way to the large doors, where he removed the lock to let in a lean servant.

"Good morning, my King," he said, his gaze naturally coming to you. He stared at you but addressed Ahk, his words concise and posture straight. "You have a meeting with the embalmers of Thebes this morning, on the false accusations. After that you have –"

"– to overlook the temple building in the markets, yes, I know. My memory isn't that bad," Ahkmenrah grumbled, sighing deeply as he rubbed his face with his hand.

"Apologies, I just..." the servant's eyes flickered to yours, "didn't know if you.. drank last night."

"Just a glass, Naguib," he said with a slight smile, one that fell once Naguib began to root through his wardrobe.

You watched from your spot on the floor; the glint of gold in the closet, the mirror perfectly reflecting the King's standing position. His reflection yawned, dreary eyes meeting yours with a gentle delight. Instantly your vision darted away. 

"Amoke, this is Naguib," he said, and in that moment you forced yourself to turn back to him. He was smiling expectantly, the servant behind him waving a polite hello. You returned the wave and he appeared to be satisfied.

Naguib picked the King's clothes and donned them on him, from the lapis beaded collar to gold cuffs on every wrist and ankle. The cape that streamed from his shoulders was a light all its' own, as though Ahkmenrah wore the sun upon his back, the silk drifting in gentle waves towards the marble floor. Only the crown was more regal than that, but above all was the man himself. The sweet coos and fawning words of the previous evening had faded into a stone face, pride on his puffed chest, and cunning on his parted lips. 

"I'm afraid I'll have to leave you here for the day," he said as he stared at his reflection, smoothing out the wrinkles in his sleeves and the unevenness of his necklace.

"But –"

"No," he interrupted you before you could truly start, voice dipping low as half-lidded eyes turned to you. 

There was something about his stare––something about the way he looked at you, as though he knew every thought in your head. This must've been the look that, in part, earned him his reputation. 

"Stay here, pet," he said in a softer voice, bending down to kiss your forehead.

His lips were warm and enviously soft on your skin, but you had little time to process it before his cape whipped behind him, leaving you alone in the room. Naguib had left with him and locked the door. Now the only sound to calm the incessant ringing in your ears was the incredibly distant murmurs of an early-morning market, filled with birdsong and calling voices attempting to sell their work. 

Fumbling to stand, you padded with bare feet towards the open arches. From here you could see the Nile and the many temples sprouted up throughout the city, their towers marking themselves distinct from the houses cluttering the twisting streets. It wasn't all unlike the other cities you'd seen––a different architecture style, of course, but similar nonetheless.

The arches had no railings of any sort, so as you peered over the edge, you kept both hands on the pillar beside you. Right beneath the Pharaoh's room was a garden, smaller than the one you had visited the night before. 

It wasn't too far down, either.

You darted back into the room, pulling the thin blankets off the bed and off the floor, tying the ends together with frantic hands. Even your breath hastened to match your heartbeat, speeding dangerously in your chest as apprehension filled you. There was no time to waste––you needed to escape _now_ , before he came back, before you had to memorize his routine; before this became more than a two-day problem.

Guards in their uniforms passed by outside, circling the palace with spears in their hands. You glanced out at them as you worked, trying to find the rhythm in their marching, and having little luck before you realized there were multiple groups passing by the arches at different times. A soft groan left you as you bit your lip in irritation. More things to calculate.

Although the ground didn't seem all too far away, it took a decent amount of time before the makeshift rope could reach the ground. Several hours of rearranging the types of knots and their placements finally wrought good results––the lowest blanket could now touch one of the trees near the garden's entrance, which you could use as a way down.

The sun had to be around midday, going by the shadows, and you assumed the Pharaoh would not be back to his bedroom until later in the evening. Before you could stay to see that time, you tied one end of your blanket rope to the arch's pillar and casted the length of it below you.

Hesitation caught you as you attempted to climb down, the sheer height of the building catching you off guard. What once seemed a short way was suddenly a means of death––not that it wasn't ever that before––and you could barely breathe with how tight your throat became. Your shaking hands gripped the cloth tight, sweating with the tension building in your muscles. Gentle breezes only accentuated your sweat, but it was not of import to you. All that remained on your mind in the overcrowding of fear was the need to escape, and thus you returned to your task, carefully scaling down the palace wall.

Nothing but silence dared make a sound in your thoughts as you climbed, breath evening further with every step you took downwards. The anxiousness only faded once you could see the individual leaves of the tree below you, and the design of the blanket stretched out on its limbs, crimson red and gold in the sunlight.

The moment you could reach you did so, clambering onto the thin branches in hopes of swinging towards the thicker ones. As you reached for the next branch, another hit your wrist, pain instantly shocking your left hand out of its' grip. Fortunately you caught yourself; just barely, and a second later you dropped to the ground with a huff.

You ran.

Without thought you ran, as fast as your feet could take you, as far as your lungs would allow. Air began to sting in your lungs, wind biting at the back of your open throat as you bounded through the halls, praying you wouldn't meet anyone on your way out.

The Pharaoh and his power was intimidating, no one could deny that, but your fears remained centralized in the idea of being known. You scarcely gave your name and hated living on in memory. Your own world was perfectly fine and you found no need to exist in anybody else's, no matter how much Ahkmenrah wanted you to.

But of course your stumbling would get you. As your thoughts were occupied, you paid little attention to the road in front of you, toppling over a railing you hadn't noticed yourself barreling towards. You tried to catch yourself with bulging eyes, but the ceiling was fading with mortifying speed. Bile filled your mouth as a sickness invaded your stomach.

Cool water splashed around you, soaking your clothes and skin alike as you sunk into the pool. Vines entangled you, the legs of lily pads separating in your wake, their flowers naught but silhouettes above you. A shadow appeared above you, but before you could make any decision it grabbed your upper arm and forced you out of the water.

"Ohh, dearest," sung a voice, accompanied by the close cradling of your body despite it being soaked. The sick feeling in your belly grew into a poison as recognition came to you. Your muscles tensed again in his grip, every nerve fighting against a fleeing instinct.

"My King, isn –"

"Quiet, Gyasi. My poor, sweet love... what are you doing here?" He asked, his hand coming up to stroke the hair away from your face. "I told you not to leave the room."

You shivered, leftover adrenaline sending shakes throughout your body. It left a tense silence where you would originally reply.

"You feel cold," he said, though you didn't feel at all cold. "Let's get you cleaned up, hm? I ought to do it anyway, since your clothes are a little torn."

He brought you to your feet, keeping an arm around you as he patiently led you away from the pond and those gathered there. Most everyone stared at you as you left, but you could barely notice, your vision blurred and hazy.

Steam filled your senses in the room he led you to, warm and scented with honey and lavender. Your eyes opened there, head raised to see the servant women working, stoking the fires and heating the water. Beside you, Ahk motioned to one of them, mumbling something in her ear that sent her out the door. Though curiosity did come to you, you kept silent in the unease of the Pharaoh's presence.

He had yet to accuse you of trying to escape, but it was only a matter of time. The rope in his room was still hung off the balcony. That fact kept you wary as much as it kept you jumpy, something Ahkmenrah unfortunately noticed.

By the hands on your shoulders he led you to a bath dug into the raised floor, the water inside steaming pleasantly with the scent of honey. Reluctantly you began to peel your clothes away, all too aware of his eye on you, memorizing how you stripped yourself down. As you dipped into the water, you attempted at removing the sick irritation you connected with him staring at you. It would happen quite a lot more (whether or not you wanted it to) before you could leave this place.

"Do you have any injuries?" He asked as he moved to sit beside you, his golden robes dirtying on the floor.

"I don't know," you said hoarsely.

"I'll have one of our physicians look over you. That was a long fall," he said, leaning forward to kiss your forehead again, before standing and leaving you to the care of the servants.

As promised, a physician visited you shortly, scanning over you while one of the women scrubbed at the dirt beneath your fingernails. The heat of the water calmed your muscles, untensing your anxious grips even as you were bombarded with questions.

By the time the servant women had dried and dressed you in new clothes, the Pharaoh had yet to return from whatever excursion he had left on. It didn't bother you, considering you didn't especially like being around him, but it did leave you wondering as you lazily watched the servants. Even if you wanted to leave you couldn't; you had no idea where in the palace you were, and there was a fair amount of guards wandering around outside the room. You bit at the inside of your cheek.

A good while later––far past the midday when you'd first fallen––he returned with singed clothes, ash covering his face. Your eyes widened at his appearance, and he was quick to notice your mild alarm.

"Incident at the, um, Bastet temple. One of the new priests really likes working with fire," he mumbled in a dazed voice, shaking his head as though he was trying to shake himself back into his body. "Are you alright?"

You nodded.

"Good. I've got most of the rest of the evening free, so let's get you back to my room, yes?"

It took quite a lot of self-control not to spit in his face, and much more willpower to slowly nod. He would accept no other answer and the suggestion of such would land you in unknown terrain.

He led you back down the hall, and each step you took burnt your regret into the ground beneath you. If one could identify the scent of fear, it'd be coming off you in floods, obvious in your panicked eyes and hastened breath. He would find the rope, and he would no doubt be angry. None of this would have happened if you had just watched where you were going.

Panic saturated your heart, functionally marinated it, as Ahkmenrah reached forward to open the door in the middle of the hallway. Every click of the latch had you flinching, till the door swung open and the light of late-afternoon hit your eyes.

The rope tied to the arch was inconspicuous, but the absence of nearly all the blankets in the room was not. Slowly the cogs in his brain sped up, and in each passing second you could see further recognition in him, till his eyes turned to the rope knotted around the pillar.

He said nothing––simply moved forward, glanced out and down the balcony, and turned back to you.

"You were trying to escape?" He asked you, nothing behind the tone of his voice, which might as well have been as bad as any anger he could've unleashed.

"I told you I could keep you safe here," he continued, and you, in your head, connected dots that suddenly appeared. He would never let you outside his room now––now that his point has been proven. "See what happens when you disobey?"

You blinked and he was standing in front of you, close enough that every inhale of his chest brushed against your shirt. At first you tried to step away, but he moved to cup your face, keeping you frozen in your spot. Your terrified eyes stared into his.

"The next time you try to leave here without me, I shall have to intervene myself, if you do not hurt yourself on your own as you so often do. Do you understand me?"

You nodded. There was nothing else you could do, not with your throat so tight you could barely swallow.

"I obviously cannot trust you," he said, his gaze flickering between your eyes.

He left you standing in the middle of the room as he went to one of his chests, pulling and unlocking the latch before the creak of hinges sounded in the room. You turned to watch in both interest and worry, patiently waiting for his reveal, before he turned back to you with rope in his hands.

As per usual, your first instinct was to bolt out the door. Your feet practically itched with the tension stored up in them, but you stayed perfectly still, terrified into submission as he pulled you forward. You almost stumbled, but before you could fully do so he pushed you onto his bed. Quickly you moved from your stomach to your back, creeping backwards on the bed as he drew nearer, the rope drawn taut between his hands. Kneeling on the bed with his head held high above yours, he was an opposite from the lovesick King you had first met.

He tied your wrists to the bedpost and you let him. He pulled the knots so tight and intricate there was no hope you could get out without breaking the rope, and you let him.

"I can keep you safe here," he murmured, lodged between your legs with his lips against your temple. Your heart stormed hell in your chest. "You _will_ stay here. Any attempt on your behalf to leave and I will have to punish you. Understand?"

"Then I am a prisoner," you said, your voice hoarse and broken.

"You are what you make yourself," he said in a much more stern tone, looking down at you with knowing, wary eyes. "If it is a prisoner, then so be it. But you will be, throughout all actions and situations, mine."

"I..."

_"You belong to me."_


End file.
